


between the tree and the bark

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Banter, Developing Relationship, Enthusiastic Consent, Exhibitionism, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Foreplay, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Multi, Pillow Talk, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Voyeurism, they all finally get it together thank god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22543810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: Never go between the tree and the bark, they say. But what about between the witcher and the sorceress?Jaskier pines. And then he wiggles his way into a threesome.EDIT:Now with some fantastic inspired fanart!(vague nsfw warning!)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 173
Kudos: 874





	1. Chapter 1

It’s the alcohol, Jaskier thinks, that get Geralt and Yennefer started in the tavern. Or maybe it’s the music– not Jask’s– the revelry or atmosphere, or maybe, something in his head says in Geralt’s tone, maybe it’s just Yen’s talented tongue. But Jaskier thinks it’s at least partially the alcohol; he hasn’t precisely seen Geralt so loose as he is now, hands at Yen’s hips and matching her messy kisses with equal fervor.

They’d started in a bit ago, actually, which is why Jask is now at his _own_ table, thank you very much, song book sat neatly besides his empty stein. Except he’s not writing now; it’s loud and he’s tired and lacking the inspiration after the three day hike it had taken to get back. And Geralt and Yennefer are making out. It’s distracting, and maybe a little too interesting to watch.

They’re not _affectionate,_ not really. There’s no wooing. Jaskier wonders if there ever had been. The time immediately following the djinn never had cleared up for him; it had been a hazy mess of Geralt rushing him across Rinde and a disappointingly small smattering of memories from the orgiastic heaven that he would have, at any other time, reveled in himself. He can’t recall Geralt and Yennefer’s first meeting. He still doesn’t know how he’d gotten her to help in the first place. So if there had been any intricate dance upon meeting– a flirtatious glance here, snark there, a well-timed placement of a hand or brush of skin on skin– Jaskier doesn’t know. But that asides, he doubts it. Geralt probably doesn’t know how to _woo._

They hadn’t made love on the floor of that house. They had fucked, plain and simple, and Jaskier had marveled at the sheer _ferocity_ behind the two of them tangled together on that floor until Chiradean had pulled him away from the window.

And it wouldn’t surprise him if Geralt rucked up Yen’s skirt right now and had her over the table, for as frisky as they’re getting. And Jask would probably watch, again, just like he had back in Rinde. Because they may not be affectionate, but they’re nonetheless captivating.

They don’t even work in tandem to each other. It’s the opposite; Geralt pushes, Yen pulls. They’re two forces each their own, storms raging against each other– Jaskier taps his pencil against the table, and writes that down. He’s still _trying_ to eke out the beginnings of a song here. In the meantime, he looks back up, keeps watching.

Yennefer is beautiful. He’s not blind, and he’s not an idiot. He’s heard stories about how sorcesseress were made. Her beauty was skin deep, but yet… maybe more. Jaskier doesn’t know. All he knows is that she still scares him shitless, that she is _dangerous_ for him and Geralt alike, and that she is so conventionally beautiful he can’t help the innate part of his brain that gets a little aroused over watching her. Long, raven hair that’s pushed back over a shoulder as she leans back, and there’s a glaring red mark blossoming there that Jask can see even in this gloom. And she’s breathing a little harder now, the rise and fall of her chest, up and down, up and down of her bosom– _ample_ bosom, he makes another note on the page– and the way she smiles sends heat coiling down into his gut.

He shifts, uncomfortable, and keeps watching.

Geralt, now, Jaskier knows him. He thinks he’s known him right from the moment they’d met; for all the dark, brooding exterior, he’s very easy to read despite his best intentions not to be. He is strong and determined and _caring,_ of all things, something you wouldn’t expect looking at those scars and those eyes. But still, he is a _witcher,_ injuries and muscles and that deep voice, impossible strength at his fingertips or in the swords at his side. The mysterious, taboo appeal follows him even without the alcohol, but it does help: in the way he smiles, unhurried and pleased, and lets his thighs spread open, slow. An invitation.

Yen takes it, ghosting her palm along his thigh until it settles snug at the outline of his cock jutting against his trousers. (Those goddamn pants leave nothing to imagination, and Geralt is well-endowed.) And then the two of them are kissing again, and most of the action is hidden away by Yennefer’s body leaning into Geralt’s and the shadows they create.

They really might fuck here, in public, Jask thinks, which– of course he has no problem with some good exhibitionism, and no one really seems to be paying them much attention, anyway, but, well. Jask really shouldn’t be watching this. At the very top of the thing, he shouldn’t be letting it _continue,_ but… _well._ Damn Geralt and his way of managing to look like such a ladykiller without the proper wooing, _and_ Yennefer for being as entrancing and mysterious as the witcher was. He isn’t going over there like this.

Jaskier drums his pencil against his book again, and then abandons it to slip his hand beneath the table.

He has some standards– few, at least– and they aren’t dipping beneath _should I have it off watching my best friend and his temptress publicly fuck?_ tonight, but the front of his trousers are uncomfortably tighter and he just needs a little adjustment, that’s all.

Either way, he keeps watching.

Geralt’s hands fall to Yen’s waist, and he pulls her in to settle atop his lap. She goes so easily, fitting there like they aren’t push and pull, yin and yang, like Geralt isn’t pushing her blouse up by slipping his overworked hands up her sides. Jaskier doesn’t try to pretend he isn’t staring at the scrap of flawless skin that’s exposed by it; it doesn’t matter he’d seen her half derobed to begin with– plus, _amphora,_ insanity, bigger things to worry about, back then– and he can’t pretend he doesn’t track Yen’s hands when she tugs at the laces on Geralt’s shirt, letting it fall open to reveal a swath of scarred chest and collarbones.

They truly are a storm, the both of them. What they’ll leave in their path, Jaskier doesn’t know. But it’s exhilarating and terrifying in the way storms are. Electric and powerful. And Jask’s hand moves, just a little, at the front of his trousers. He’s a little caught up in it, too. It’s impossible not to be.

So it is that he doesn’t notice the barmaid with the pint he’d swear he’d ordered a lifetime ago until she puts it down none too gently; Jaskier _jolts,_ flinches so hard he slams that hand of his his into the underside of the table and, _“shit!_ You–” He puts both hands back on the table, which might be the biggest godsdamn indicator he’d had one _underneath_ but he doesn’t care. The barmaid looks supremely unimpressed and Jask takes a breath, and does try to pretend he wasn’t about to pleasure himself in the here and now. “Thank you,” he manages, and then busies himself with burying his face in the drink. 

When he dares to look up again, a few seconds later because curiosity will kill the cat, he knows, Geralt is looking at him. It’s probably from his little exclamation, he knows, knows Geralt probably heard him shout and bang up his knuckles, too, but it’s just that thought– _what if he_ knows? he thinks, and the heat turning about in his stomach and chest rises up to stain his cheeks pink, too. He can _feel_ himself blush. But it’s in an effort to pretend that all is well that he waves a little bit, as rueful as he can manage. With the hand he’d just had at his groin. But it’s fine. Geralt’s a little _drunk_ and doesn’t look like he cares about anything Jaskier’s doing, anyway, and Yen’s got her back to him so maybe he’s safe. Probably he’s safe.

… not like it’d be the first time Geralt caught him partaking in _perfectly_ normal things, anyway, Jaskier remembers, and picks up his pencil to keep scribbling at his song. He tries not to think about that. It’s too _embarrassing,_ and it’s not his fault they hardly have any privacy when they travel the road together. _A man has_ needs, _Geralt!_ That’s what he’d told him. It still held true! Although maybe not… maybe not in response to a certain witcher and sorceress sitting across the pub.

Geralt says something to Yen, and then laughs. Just a little. Yennefer slides off of his lap, and then stands. She fixes her shirt. Geralt doesn’t fix his when he follows her upstairs to their room without bidding Jaskier goodnight.

… he wants to follow them.

And he _could,_ technically speaking. His room’s right across from theirs and it wouldn’t be _weird._ And part of him– the part ruled predominantly by his cock, right now– wants to grab his song book and _go._

But he doesn’t.

He doesn’t know which part he’s more moody over, actually. The fact he was almost found out, or the fact that there’s no longer good entertainment, or the fact this _song_ isn’t going well, he thinks, and stabs the lead against paper. Or, you know, that he’s hard and doesn’t have the luxury of having a sexy, insane sorceress currently attached to his hip and the choice of free patrons here isn’t _exactly_ provoking much action from him.

Maybe it’s a little of everything.

He gives it up as a bad job, eventually, after he’s scribbled down a solid two stanzas and decides it’s not something he could sing in public, anyway. He’ll sing songs of Geralt and Yennefer one day, he’s sure, but he _really_ doubts he’d get by warbling about perceived details of their sex life without some kind of cuff about the ears. Some things were private. He does respect that.

All is quiet when he tiptoes upstairs. It’s patently ridiculous but he can’t stop himself from treading lightly even when there’s, he doesn’t know, _no_ _audible sounds of fucking_ coming from the door opposite. _Calm down, Jaskier._

He doesn’t, not really, when he’s tucked snug into bed and has to return his fingers to his prick to get the mood to move past, hand quick and steady as he bites into the bedsheets to keep himself quiet, too. Yes, he thinks of Geralt and Yennefer, and spills in record time.

_Calm down, Jaskier._

He prays to the gods he does, or he won’t be able to look them in the eye come morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this since I posted the other ot3 fic and... expanded on it, huh
> 
> here's to yall who also liked this trio!! fair warning it will focus heavily on geralt/yenn for a bit, but through jaskier's eyes. and then... ot3 ;)


	2. Chapter 2

“How are your hands today, Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Your hands.”

Geralt, Jaskier decides yet again, is a _good_ cook, considering the kinds of things he can scrape together over a campfire. It isn’t so much of a surprise anymore, but sometimes, some things really hit the spot. Geralt’s soup– whatever may be in it, Jask isn’t sure he wants to know– makes a good breakfast and he’s just about ready to head back out for their rendezvous with the other hunter they’ve been on their way to meet. Just needs to wash up a bit, he thinks, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth, and then pack up again…

“Got a problem with my hands?”

“Yes,” Yennefer says. “They’re… _hardened.”_

Geralt stares, and Jask blinks back into the conversation after having been a tiny bit elsewhere.

“What?”

“Your hands,” Yen says, again, “hardened. Like your heart.”

Geralt keeps on staring at her, expressionless, and Jaskier almost laughs because is that a _joke?_ Actually, something about it sounds familiar, but still comical…

“So _now_ you don’t like my hardened heart.”

“I didn’t say that.” Yen shrugs a shoulder, and then looks directly at Jaskier even though she’s still, _obviously,_ speaking to Geralt. “Depends on if you like my _ample bosom.”_

_Oh._ _Shit!_ Now he remembers. Now he _knows_ why that sounds familiar, and the drink of tea he’s just taken spills out of his mouth in shock because that’s the– the _notes, the song,_ the _ballad_ he’d started to write the other night back at the tavern– 

Yennefer must see the recognition in his eyes– or in the drink, soaking into his tunic– because she laughs, low and soft, and taps a fingernail against the small, leather bound book sitting atop her knee. His song book. His song book– Jask pats at his hip, where he’s always got it tucked away at his waistband like he isn’t _looking_ at it under Yen’s hands–

“No,” he breathes, and then jerks over to try and snatch it back. “No, no, no, no no nonono–”

Yen– the _she-devil–_ holds it out of reach and before Jask can even stand to grab it, Geralt plucks it from her hands.

_“Geralt!”_ he garbles– wails. Fuck. _Fuck._

It had been _fine,_ he had been _fine._ The morning after had been a bit… _odd,_ he couldn’t pretend, considering he’d literally _gotten off_ over the thought of the two of them– but _no,_ it had been fine since then. A whole three days, and it was mostly forgotten– but _gods,_ his notes– that _song–_

“What’ve you been writing about Yen’s ample bosom?” Geralt asks, and starts flipping through the godsdamned book.

“Nothing! No– no, _no–”_ He scrambles up, and nearly falls over the rocks and twigs of their still burning campfire. “Geralt!”

It’s useless, though. Trying to take something back from a determined witcher is a lost battle. Jaskier switches to defense almost immediately. Because he has to fix this, he has to make this _okay_ before they can kick him out and send him back home, or something worse–

Geralt’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks over at Jaskier. “Hope you didn’t plan on singing _this_ one.”

_“No.”_ If Geralt would just give him the book _back–_ “No, it’s just…”

“I told you he was watching the other night,” Yen says, and Jask perishes a little more on the inside. At this rate, he might decide to leave by himself.

“That wasn’t– you were getting pretty _heavy_ in the middle of the pub,” he hisses, turning to glare at her. “What did you _think,_ nobody noticed?”

“Oh, I know people noticed.”

“So, what, _they_ can watch but I’m supposed to look away??”

“I didn’t say that. I’m just surprised.”

_“Why?”_

“I can think of a few reasons.”

“Oh– oh, _do_ enlighten me!”

“I didn’t think you had it in you, for one.”

“I have a _lot_ of things in–” He’s lucky he hears the words play out in his mind, and stops himself from saying them. He doesn’t need any more mortification piled onto the shitshow he’s already managed to create for himself.

Yennefer arches an eyebrow, and tilts her head up to Geralt. “He did get the proportions right, for you. The slight curvature of yo–”

_“Alright,”_ Jaskier interrupts, and Geralt finally lets him grab the book back. “We’ve all read it, let’s not keep revisiting. I’m… _sorry,”_ because he feels he should apologize, even if they were the ones _snooping._ They, at least, hadn’t written a perpetually filthy song about him (although to be honest, he’d be flattered if they had.) “But it _was_ private. It was never going to be shared, and– and, _frankly,_ I’ve the soul of a poet, Geralt, I can’t control how I feel watching the two of you–”

He _doesn’t_ hear how that sounds, which is even more devastating. Geralt gives him that same, dry look of amusement and Yen _laughs,_ and honestly? _Honestly?_ He just wants one of Geralt’s stupid monsters to crop up and take him out right now. Where were they when you needed them?

“You know what I _mean._ That’s not what I meant. I just–”

“If you wanted to watch, you could have just asked.”

He absolutely hears the words leave Yennefer’s mouth, but Jaskier doesn’t _comprehend_ them, at first. Because he could swear she’d just _said he could watch._ As in, watch them have sex. As in, not leer from across the pub– but no, _wait,_ it’s got to be a trap. She said he _could_ have asked. Not that she would have _let_ him.

“– oh, don’t get shy now, Geralt,” she’s saying. “You’ve never been modest a day in your life, don’t start now. It isn’t cute.”

Jaskier can barely make himself look back at Geralt. The whole thing is particularly humiliating, but Geralt is his _friend._ Yen, she’ll be gone in a week and gone for months after. And she isn’t his _friend._ He doesn’t know what she is, really, but, Geralt, Geralt is a constant.

But Geralt isn’t looking at him, still looking at Yen, eyebrows raised, and… generally unperturbed, all things considered. “Really? _Jaskier?”_

“Hey,” he manages. He can’t find his voice on anything else, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t defend his own honor here. “‘Really, Jaskier?’ What’s _that_ mean?”

“You’re not her type.”

“I can be _anyone’s_ type,” he fires back, arguing to… to what, exactly? That he can be Yennefer of Vengerberg’s _type?_ Casually inserting himself into their relationship? He isn’t sure what he’s arguing for. He isn’t sure what he’s getting himself into.

… he’s excited, a little. A part of himself is thrilling at the prospect, if perhaps it might be true–

He’s being played, _surely._ But he can’t help but– for some reason– hope that he isn’t. Oh, why does he _hope_ that they’re actually _inviting_ him?

(he wants to be invited, he wants to be _wanted,_ by two people who are larger than life and humanity themselves, gods, he wants to be–)

“Is that a challenge?” Yennefer asks, in that sly way of hers. He’s starting to get used to that tone. What does _that_ mean?

_It means, Julian Alfred Pankratz, you are about to agree to a threesome with Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerberg. Of whichever nature. Theoretically speaking._

When he looks back at Geralt, he’s seeking… guidance. Permission? He doesn’t know. But Geralt just shrugs, and then has the audacity to nod at Jaskier’s song book. “If you’re going to write risqué poetry, may as well do it right.”

His head spins. Something in his body thrills.

Their situation changes, and Jask is both terrified and thrilled for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to get them on the same page........ just to get them in the same ~~bed~~ room whilst Yen & Geralt fuck.......
> 
> also I'm honestly blown away and seriously thrilled by how much yall enjoy this prospective ot3 holy shit??


	3. Chapter 3

“Are you going to come in, or shall I just get started without the both of you?”

“She will,” Geralt says, and pushes the door open. 

Jaskier almost falls back, but, like with many things on this journey, he decides to hold his ground at the last second. He wouldn’t have met Geralt if he hadn’t held his ground. He wouldn’t have gotten to travel, or pursue his love of music with his new muse, or _any_ of it if he’d backed down when he’d been scared. Besides… scared isn’t really the word.

Awkward is, maybe, a little. And it’s not as though Jaskier’s a _prude;_ gods, most know he isn’t. He’s seen, objectively speaking, far worse things. He’s participated in more than a few himself. And ‘bad’ and ‘worse’ are subjective, anyway. But… Geralt-Yen. Yen-Geralt. That’s what makes it different. Plus the fact that Geralt is very _male_ complicates it a bit more; it’s not the very first time he’s happened upon a man and woman partaking in relations, but he can, without hesitation, say he’s never had a man involved in any of his dalliances. Not that it… matters much, because _neither_ of them here _are_ to be his dalliances… 

He’s overthinking. A curse to be sure. He presses his hand flat against the wall, and then shoves away from it to follow Geralt into their room.

“I was beginning to think you’d pulled out.”

Jaskier finds a chair waiting at the small table in the room, and resigns himself to it, notebook in hand. Maybe he jots things down, maybe he doesn’t. He looks across the room at Yennefer, already stretched out along the bed, and says, unthinking, “but that takes away half the fun, doesn’t it?”

Geralt huffs a laugh, and something in Jask’s heart swells– the part that always does, when he manages to please Geralt, to amuse him or console him or generally just be an okay companion. And even though Yen’s smirk is sharp, deadly as always, there’s something in _that,_ too, that Jaskier thinks he should pride himself in.

“I wouldn’t know,” she says. “Geralt never does.”

The first of many revelations of the night, Jaskier is sure.

Geralt drops his jacket in a heap to the floor, and toes off his boots. “Not my style.”

“Yes, yes, Geralt, if you could–”

“I’m coming.”

“You will be,” Yennefer promises, and Jask stifles a laugh against his knuckles.

“Is the banter part of your usual mating call, or purely for my benefit?” He can’t help but ask.

“Depends,” Geralt says, settling on the bed next to Yen. 

“On?”

“If we’re feeling playful,” he continues, and leans in to kiss her.

_So not just for my benefit, then,_ Jask thinks, but doesn’t say it. Despite their interest on inviting him in, he doubts they actually want a running commentary and he’d rather just… watch, like he had in the tavern. So he does something he doesn’t usually do: he stays quiet.

It’s not like the tavern this time, not exactly. So, he figures they must be feeling _playful,_ because they’re not immediately fucking into each other with the ferocity of those storms Jask had compared them to. They aren’t changing tides, this time. They’re just… hm. They’re _just._

He doesn’t have the words. How can _he_ not have the words?

It’s Yennefer who leads the relationship, something Jaskier’s known since… probably that first time, back in Rinde. And he hadn’t even _really_ needed to stare at them fucking to know that, because Yennefer was that type of woman– which was _sexy–_ and Geralt was so hopelessly weak for her that he _would_ and _does_ roll over for her. It should be funny. It really isn’t. Like he says: _sexy._

Geralt barely plucks at the laces on her waist belt before she’s pushing him off, and over, and he _goes_ like Jaskier expects him to. And somehow he sprawls just as enticingly as Yen had managed a moment ago, spread open and inviting like he had been the other night– gods, how does someone as big and brutish as Geralt can manage to _look_ like that? It’s not fair. It’s not right.

Yen slips the buttons of his shirt free, and tosses it aside. For his better intentions, Jaskier’s eyes still track that movement, and when he looks back, Geralt’s trousers are already halfway past his hips and his hands are finishing off her laces.

… maybe a little like the storm, Jask reevaluates, and his mouth is going dry. He settles in, and tries to relax. He may as well, because he isn’t leaving now.

Yennefer’s blouse, Geralt’s pants. His eyes track every movement of clothing and then they bounce back, eager, to take in the expanse of skin bared before him. Geralt’s skin, naked and marred by all those brushes too close to death Jask definitely doesn’t want to think about right now. And he’s _seen_ him naked. How many times? A river’s a bath in the wilderness, and he’s just about the only one idiotic enough to follow Geralt into the actual baths on the off-chance they get to partake in them. (But then, he follows Geralt anywhere, these days.) Geralt’s let him wash his hair before, and his back, and those scars.

But it’s different like this. It is. Because this isn’t methodical and necessary; this isn’t a layer of gunk and gross that he’s managed to find his way into. This is _sex,_ a little more primal and far more intimate. And Geralt doesn’t look at _him_ like that when he’s sharing a bath, which is… which is probably just as well, considering Jask is getting hard just watching him be vulnerable like this.

All by Yen’s hands– and Jaskier is putty in her hands, too, _considering he’s getting hard just by watching them work against each other like this._ Her hands– feminine, a little dainty, dangerous and full of all kinds of godsdamn magic Jask can’t even imagine– smoothing up against Geralt’s abs, heels of her palms against his nipples and then along his strong jaw. “You need to shave,” she contemplates, and Jaskier silently agrees.

“You told me that three days ago.”

“And you still haven’t done it to satisfaction. Honestly, Geralt. You could stand to be _slightly_ more cultured.”

“For this town?” Geralt snorts softly, and brushes a thumb along the beard he’s been growing. “No.”

“No, silly man.” She kisses him once, brief and playful. Geralt chases her lips when she pulls away, but she sits back upright, anyway. “For _me.”_

“Hm.”

She rolls her eyes. “Charming.”

“Tempting,” Geralt allows, and Jaskier silently agrees there, too.

“Well done. Now come up here and kiss me properly.”

Now _he_ rolls his eyes, and does.

It’s… fascinating, Jaskier thinks, because he’s _so_ set on the fact that they are complete opposites to one another, and, somehow? They’re still _completely_ in sync. Forces raging to calm into a steady sea, when Yennefer gives her sharp, sharp attitude and Geralt volleys it with nonverbal gestures and the twitch of his lips towards amusement. The way she kisses him and he rises to kiss her. His lips along her jaw and her hands sliding back to let Geralt’s hair down. She touches him gently, and he does the same to her.

(How does he do _that?_ Jaskier still doesn’t _get_ it, either. But he knows Geralt’s hands are capable of a gentle touch– not in this realm, but he can almost imagine, and he thinks he’s starting to sweat a little over how much he’s focusing on _Geralt_ but like he’s said, Geralt is his _constant–)_

They’re almost a paradox. Terrible for each other, but perfect at the same time.

Her nails drag along his back, leaving a path of red marks there, and then slide around to rest on his thighs. Geralt makes a noise, barely there, barely noticeable, but a _breath,_ when she wraps her hand around his prick, and then he’s making a grab for her skirt, tugging at a handful.

“Take this off.”

Yennefer’s perfect hand around Geralt’s cock– and yes, _yes,_ he’s staring now, a bit, and he has before, but _gods,_ was that a witcher thing or had he been so _large_ before? Jask’s quite fine with his own, _thank you,_ he’s never had a problem in that department, but… but Geralt’s rather _massive,_ like with all things him. _Anyway,_ Yennefer’s hand around his cock is the focal point of interest but Jask still can’t help but look up when she _laughs,_ low and deadly.

“I thought you _liked_ this skirt.”

“I do,” Geralt grunts. “I like it on the floor.”

Jaskier _laughs._ He’s nervous and fluttering and Geralt is making _jokes,_ and he can’t help it: he laughs. He puts his hand over his mouth, but they don’t pay him any attention even though he knows they had to have heard. But he guesses they have other things to worry about.

“Don’t be crass.”

_“Yen.”_

“Say please.”

Geralt doesn’t miss a beat. “Please,” and oh, it’s so _dry_ as he’d expect from Geralt but it still does _things_ to him. He _likes_ begging. Hearing and actively participating, because he falls so easily into that pattern of speech himself. He likes to talk. He likes to _beg._ Hearing Geralt say it like that, dry but still a little low and strained… the fire coils into his belly, and his cock twitches beneath all these layers of fabric that are suddenly far, far too hot.

He doesn’t move his hand from his mouth, and he _does not_ put his hand in his lap this time. No matter how much he wants to.

“Very well, then,” Yen acquiesces, and makes much more of a production about removing the rest of her clothes than she had about Geralt’s, a few moments prior. Much like the women at the brothel, a paid performance and Jaskier feels like he’s going to owe _so_ much more than coin for this, after this– and he still can’t keep his eyes off her.

Geralt taking his own cock in hand while Yen derobes takes slightly less predominance, although it’s still an interested ache in his groin that he doesn’t want to think too hard– snrk, focus– about. Besides, the way Yen moves, stretches to unclasp and unbutton and undress, is perfectly choreographed to further fuel the heat. To provoke Geralt’s hand to moving a little quicker, to setting Jaskier’s breathing harder. There’s a pool of black fabric puddled on the floor when she’s finished, with only an accent of white from her silken underthings.

“You’re teasing,” Geralt says, reaching for her again. “You know I hate that.”

_“I_ know you love that, actually.”

“Not _today.”_

He grabs her hips and pulls her in, sheathing his cock completely inside of her in a fell swoop Jaskier might have missed if he hadn’t been watching so _intently._ But then Yen’s head falls back, the bared expanse of her throat tilted back to expose, Geralt makes a noise somewhat akin to a growl, and Jaskier sighs under his breath.

He knows the feeling, _intimately,_ of a woman clenched so snugly around the most sensitive of parts, warm and enveloping. The sensation of settling, and adjusting, and then the flare-up of sensation as she starts to move– as Yennefer starts to move on Geralt, and he holds onto her waist to guide her movements, and Jaskier _aches._

This, he thinks, and feels dizzy with the certainty, was a very bad idea. 

The part of him that wants to watch is nearly overtaken by the part of him that wants to _flee–_ to find his way to the nearest proper brothel and pay out in coin to put all of this to practice on him. _He_ wants this. _He_ wants to be in the middle of this. _He_ wants to be the one pressed flush against skin and squeezed down upon. _He_ wants a mouth, messy and desperate against his, he wants someone to say his name the way Yennefer is letting herself go just enough to say Geralt’s, over and over as she rides him right in front of Jaskier.

He needs to go. But, _gods,_ he has to stay.

He picks up little things. The sheen of sweat beading at Yennefer’s hairline. The flush of pink at Geralt’s cheeks. The movement of muscle rippling beneath skin, on both of them, straining and relaxing and tightening again. A cycle of tension ready to snap. He shudders, and presses his hands flat against the tabletop.

He doesn’t know who, technically speaking, pitches over first; he’s watching Yennefer and then he’s watching Geralt, and then he’s watching the two of them release together. _Together,_ again, unlike half of the moments of the sex to begin with, unlike half of the moments he’s seen them occupying the same physical space at _all._ Yennefer looks rapturous. And– and so does Geralt, both of their faces framed with hair past their shoulders and chests heaving with exertion.

There’s innate beauty in the act, and Jaskier’s watching oh so closely.

He wants to come with them. He really does. He abruptly wants it more than he’s wanted anything else, ever, wants to have release alongside the two of them, even though they’re removed from one another; he’s on one side of the room and they are in bed, but Jaskier _wants_ to tip into pleasure with then, anyway. He’s practically quaking with it, but he isn’t quite there and he doesn’t dare do anything to persuade it further, even though it would take a weak breeze, truly.

It takes him a second to realize he’s been holding his breath, too. Riding out the orgasm with them, even neglected as he is. He breathes out as he hears Geralt do the same, and Yennefer unseats herself to drop onto the bed, too.

He’s _jealous,_ he realizes just then, something deep and innate and yearning. Jealous of the way Geralt gathers Yennefer into his arms, and the way she laughs against his skin and compliments him on a job well done.

_Then,_ he realizes he doesn’t know how this is supposed to end. Is he supposed to say something? Give a round of applause? Walk out– _run,_ like he wants to, to go find relief of his own– or…? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know–

“Get what you needed?” Geralt’s voice cuts through the silence in a way that nearly make Jaskier jump. It’s a little deeper than usual and decidedly a bit groggy, and he doesn’t even look over to where Jaskier sits, which is also just as well.

Jaskier looks down at his book, and realizes he hasn’t written a single thing down. He stares at the pages, and only sees the imprint of everything he’s watched tonight instead. 

“… quite,” he manages, and it isn’t even a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jaskier, quaking: oh _no_


	4. Chapter 4

“Invite me again.”

“Didn’t get enough source material the first time?” Geralt doesn’t even blink at the proposal, which Jaskier is _infinitely_ grateful for. It’s awkward, no two ways about it, and he doesn’t have the right to be asking. There had been absolutely no indication it had been an offer that they intended to repeat, and yet… Jaskier wants more. He wants to shake off the nerves that had clung like cobweb during that first time. Step away from the initial uncertainty. This was a _thing,_ one that had actually happened.

He wants it to happen again.

So, it’s not his right and it’s definitely not his place, but even still. He stands his ground.

“Some,” he agrees. Even though he hadn’t written anything, per se. It’s still all in his head. “But honestly, Geralt, you can’t expect me to believe you two fuck the same every single time.”

“And yet the mechanics remain the same.”

“And _yet,”_ he says, sliding into the chair opposite, “I can’t collect all the details on one go, and you can’t offer a dying man a drink of wine and swipe it away after one taste.”

There is something… something about the way Geralt laughs. He’s noticed it before, certainly. He’d taken quite a vested interest in reading through Geralt’s moods– one had to, with that kind of brooding face– these past few years and there’s always that satisfaction of being able to _break_ through them. The warm feeling expanding in his chest, the same feeling that brings a giddy smile to his own face even if Geralt is laughing to Jaskier’s own detriment. He knows it’s probably a bit of that praise and acceptance thing, dangerous as it is, but he doesn’t try to think about it, if he’s being honest. It doesn’t really matter, does it? Geralt, breaking face enough to smirk or laugh at something Jaskier’s said. That’s what’s important. Always has been.

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says, _“you’re_ the man dying of thirst.”

“Yes! Exactly that.” He’ll take the comparisons and run with them. He doesn’t care. “And I still need supplementary on this song–”

“That you will never perform.”

“If I could just make it… _tasteful_ enough for public consumption–”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts, and Jask supposes he’s trying to be menacing but it isn’t really working.

“I _could_ make it suitable for a song to share, Geralt! Don’t doubt these hands, they’re very capable.”

“Yes, every night at the tenth hour,” Yennefer says behind him, and he bites the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning out loud. _Perfect._ Of course she would.

“That’s not _true,”_ he complains, glaring over his shoulder. And she just looks supremely amused, plucking at a piece of bread from their breakfast. “And you don’t have the hearing to know that, anyway.”

Her eyebrows rise. “Don’t I?”

“… _do_ you?”

She laughs, and he scowls, and he… can’t really complain about the lack of privacy, can he? All things currently considered.

And he still needs an answer. He looks back at Geralt, trying to coax him into responding to the initial question– it’s just one word, a _yes_ or _no,_ and Geralt thrives on monosyllabic answers so how hard can it be?

“Ask Yen.”

 _Not_ the syllables he’d been hoping for, damn him. And still Jaskier looks at Yennefer immediately, beseeching her for an answer, too. Probably, he should have a bit more shame, but he’s not interested in stockpiling it now.

“Ask me what?”

The nerves crowd back, with a rush of frustration he wants to shove away and forget about. He can be patient. He’s had so much practice at it thus far. But still… he stares back at her because he can’t believe she’s actually _asking_ that.

“Contrary to whatever you may think, Jaskier, I’m not _actually_ in the habit of eavesdropping conversations of my two male traveling companions.”

“Well, _that’s_ a lie.”

“I was getting breakfast.”

“You just want me to say it.”

“Say it.” She shrugs a shoulder, and pulls another piece of bread apart. “Or don’t. I have no idea what you’ve been scheming, but I assure you it’s not w–”

 _“Indulge me,”_ he interrupts, exasperated and nervous in turns. “As you did a few weeks ago. For the sake of my sanity, and my songs.”

“Oh.” She actually frowns, like she’d been expecting more. Damn _her._ “That’s your gravity defining question? Alright,” she continues, and something snaps at Jaskier with a mixture of surprise and triumph alike. “Embrace your voyeuristic nature, bard. You aren’t the first to want to watch me.”

“She likes an audience,” Geralt says, smirking into the pouch of coin.

“None of that, Geralt,” Yen chastises, “or I’ll be forced to sleep with him instead of you.”

Jaskier almost chokes, and reaches across the table for Geralt’s ale to finish it off for himself.

  
  


It’s almost much the same as the first time as it is… not at all. Jaskier doesn’t know. Just like last time, he can’t find the way to describe how they move with the same ferocity but still manage to sing a _slightly_ different tune this time. A little more gentle, maybe? He wishes he could figure it out. At this stage, he thinks he probably isn’t likely to.

But then… it _is_ only the second time, he thinks, while his head’s still swimming. Only the second time.

He curses under his breath, and drags his nails from his knees. “Fuck.” He breathes out, and tries to shake feeling back into his fingers. The heat of the bathhouse is getting to him, and he thinks if it was one degree warmer in here, his orgasm might have konked him out right at the moment of climax. Because _that_ was a thing, this time. _His_ orgasm. 

There’s a lingering thought there that he ought to be _humiliated,_ because he hasn’t sullied himself in such a way since his early twenties… but he doesn’t care too much. He’s woozy enough he can’t focus much on the tackiness in his pants anyway.

Geralt can, though, apparently. At first, the hum of amused breath is little more than a breathless exclamation, until Yennefer asks what he’s laughing at.

“Nothing.”

She looks at him, and then over at Jaskier, still sitting against the wall. “Oh.”

“Wha– why _oh?”_ Maybe still a little humiliated, in ways he doesn’t necessarily hate. “Why _oh??”_

“You’re too disheveled.”

“It’s _hot,”_ he protests. 

“We were,” Yennefer agrees, and Jask rolls his eyes.

“Fine. _Fine.”_ What does he have to lose anymore? He tugs at the hem of his shirt and pulls it off. “Laugh it up. That’s fine. It’s _great,_ just– just laugh at the poor, unattached bard, who doesn’t _happen_ to have a _sexy sorceress_ stuck to his side–” He jerks at the buttons on his trousers, and kicks them aside. He’ll have to do washing _tonight,_ now, thank you– _gods!_ “But that’s okay. Because, you know what, it _was_ hot,” he says, wading into the bath. “There. I said it. Are you happy? You, gods forbid this go to your head, and Geralt, _are…_ very… intriguing to watch.” The water’s too warm when he’s still so uncomfortably stifled, but it feels good to wash the sweat and sticky off his skin. He sits, and wraps his arms around his knees, and glares as the water laps against his torso. “You’re letting me watch, you can’t blame me when I feel the need to respond. It’s natural chemistry.” _Like the two of you have._

He’s talking to fill the silence, and he knows it, and they know it. He’s not mad; if anything, he’s honestly the opposite. Buzzed and still buzzing, heat beneath his skin he knows the water won’t wash away. But he wants to rinse off, and Geralt’s watching him with his brand of amusement (Yennefer, she’s already gone to washing, even if Jask suspects she’s less disinterested than she looks, especially if she _likes_ audiences) and he feels like he ought to be having a mini-meltdown right now. So, he does, and pretends like he cares at all.

The only thing he really cares about is being here, and being able to revisit in the future.

“This is so much _effort_ for just one viewing,” he laments, even though it is, without a doubt, worth it. “I should demand an encore for my troubles.”

 _“Demand?”_ Yen says, while Geralt, in that occasionally infuriatingly flat tone, says, “we’ll see about that later.”

They look at each other and _smile,_ and Jask has to dunk his head beneath the water to stop himself from laughing– he’s got the irritated facade to keep up, now, after all. Even if he doesn’t know if he _can,_ for long. He’s… exceedingly pleased, here. About as tickled as he’d been upon first getting under the chinks in Geralt’s rough armor… it was that feeling of plucking up the courage for something and seeing it through and then getting to revel in it when it went _well._ And three orgasms amongst the lot of them _was_ pretty well. So yeah, displaced anger on the outside, pleased on the inside. That pretty much sums it up.

He’s back to watching when he breaks the surface, because that’s become his usual these days, too. Not just in the carnal sense. And it’s probably a little _weird,_ but they’re a little weird. Geralt’s a little weird, Yennefer’s a little (a lot) weird. And he’s… he’s just Jaskier. Jaskier, who’s taken in by watching the two people in the world he probably ought to be scared shitless of. But here they were.

_And yet, here we are._

They’ve come full circle, Jask thinks, and rests his chin on his knees as he watches Geralt push his hair out of his eyes. A little different now, and Yennefer’s a new addition, but… more or less, full circle.

Aaaaand if anyone had told him a decade ago that he’d be making a habit of watching Geralt of Rivia plough the sorceress who saved his life, he’d tell them to fuck right off themselves.

 _Here we are,_ he thinks, and smiles down at his own reflection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and I said, give that man an orgasm


	5. Chapter 5

“Men are so entirely predictable.”

“Completely and without a doubt.” Jaskier doesn’t mean to say it. But his tongue betrays him, as it’s wont to do, and he’s only a little bit sheepish when Yennefer raises her head from between Geralt’s thighs to fix him with a piercing stare. She’s already looking, so Jask keeps talking. “Can you _blame_ us?”

“So you’re saying I look the best with a cock between my lips.”

“Hey now,” he complains. He should be more affronted, but can’t be bothered. _“I_ did not. I would never say such a thing about a lady.”

She snorts, a startled laugh that makes both Jaskier and Geralt smile. “But would you say it about _me,_ Jaskier?” she muses. “Be honest.”

“I would,” Geralt says easily, leaning over to kiss her. “No hesitation.”

He doesn’t know how Geralt isn’t completely wrung out, not after that edging session (yes, he does. the stamina of witchers.) but instead of curling up as Jaskier would do, Geralt just threads his hands into her hair and kisses her so… gently. This feels like romance. This feels like love.

Jaskier’s still jealous, now more than ever. They’re a few times in now, and the newness has worn off, but it… doesn’t really change from an outside perspective. It remains as frenzied and free as the first time, as it had back in Rinde, and Jask is more often than not left on the precipice as he is now, hand moving cautiously in his lap. But this time is different than the others, because _nevermind_ how sexy Yennefer looks with Geralt’s cock held within her mouth– _very_ sexy, holy gods– this… this is Geralt’s hands framing Yen like he’s holding everything in his arms, and Yen looking at complete peace as she tilts her head up to kiss him, too.

And Jaskier is so godsdamned jealous, alright. He doesn’t exactly know what he wants from this… _situation,_ at this point, but he thinks it’s more than this. 

It is definitely more than this, and that's a bit terrifying, but moreover, utterly ridiculous. 

Yen demands Geralt’s help in rising back to sit on the bed, and he’s just moving to swoop in for a press of his lips to her neck when she holds up a hand. Stops him like that, effortless and carefree. He looks at her, curious but at ease, 

and then she addresses Jaskier, which nearly makes him pitch forward off the storage chest he’s been perched on. 

“Jaskier.”

“Hmm?” He’s not used to them talking to him. Even after, it’s a rare thing to be acknowledged as more than a wallflower, and he’s fine with that. 

She beckons him with the hand still hand aloft, and Jaskier stares. 

_“What?”_ Eloquent, Jaskier. He grimaces, and sits up straight. “What do you want?”

“Clearly, I want you to come over here, if you think you can manage.”

“I–” He doesn’t trust this, and he isn’t precisely sanguine on going to them while he’s still… afflicted, but Yennefer is Yennefer, and Jaskier doesn’t think he has much of a choice. “Fine. Fine. What?” he repeats, stopping at the end of the bed. He clasps his hands at his front, and pretends. “I cannot possibly imagine–”

She tilts her head up to him, and he thinks he’s hallucinating from desire when she says, “kiss me, Jaskier.”

She’s good at shocking him, their Yennefer. That much is _painfully_ obvious; look at what had gotten them there as it was. But there’s an obvious difference between _be a passive voyeur of our relationship_ versus _kiss me, Jaskier._ He isn’t hearing right.

So he smiles thinly, and asks for her to repeat herself. “Beg your pardon?”

She does repeat herself, and it comes out sounding exactly the same as the first time. “Kiss me.”

He can feel the blush rising up his cheeks again. Just when he was done with this– just when he could watch without the heat simmering beneath his skin being because of lingering embarrassment– now _this._ He swallows, and takes a tiny step back. “No!”

“I want you to,” Yen says, with an uncanny amount of patience he isn’t used to… really hearing from her.

“You _want_ me to,” he repeats.

“I wouldn’t mind.” She shrugs a shoulder, and then, “but do _you_ want you to?”

“That’s not how this works!”

“Pleasure _can_ be that simple, Jaskier, I’m quite sure you know this. Intimately. And with a lot of given coin.”

Yes, but Yennefer of Vengerberg was _not_ your common street harlot. Jask can’t help but glancing to the side, towards Geralt–

“Don’t look at him,” Yennefer interrupts, and Jaskier’s attention snaps back to her, caught. “Does Geralt make your decisions?”

“No!” _… yes, slightly._ “But when it involves his belle, I–”

“My _what?”_ Geralt rumbles, laughing.

“I’m not _his,”_ Yennefer interrupts. “Only I choose who I offer myself to. Geralt doesn’t own me, Jaskier, don’t make that mistake.”

“Wouldn’t even begin to try,” Geralt agrees.

Jask… he wonders how this works. Yen is so intent on talking him into it and Geralt is so… _blasé_ about the whole thing, when he knows– _knows!–_ Geralt is more than capable of being jealous over Yen. (Who wouldn’t be?) But then, with Jaskier, he’s just… unflappable.

Probably, he doesn’t see Jaskier as a _threat,_ which is true enough. No way he’s wooing Yennefer out from under Geralt for a _conventional_ relationship, and Jask isn’t sure he’d ever even want to try. Conventional relationships haven’t been his style.

_Or maybe,_ a smaller part of himself whispers, the part that’s a little more keen on being kind to himself, _he just trusts you. Maybe they both just trust you._

Then maybe he needs to trust them. They wouldn’t do anything to upend their already tumultuous relationship, especially for someone as simple as a human bard. But he still wants to hear… something. Maybe not permission. Probably, he already has that in Yennefer’s offer and Geralt’s ease. But something.

“… that’s not how this works,” he mutters, and _does_ look back at Geralt. “That’s not how I work.”

“You’re fine, Jask,” Geralt says, and it furthers the implication he and Yen probably _have_ discussed this before, without him. 

But that isn’t what Jaskier wants to hear, exactly, either. He’s looking for something else in Geralt’s face, beyond the permission so freely given from his lips.

He finds it when Geralt rolls his eyes with that same old half smile, and says, “just _kiss_ her.”

His blessing, rather than just his permission. That’s it. _That’s_ it.

It’s a little awkward, but Jaskier really _does_ want to know what kissing Yennefer is like, suddenly wants it more than he can breathe. So he leans down and captures her mouth against his, and kisses her like the three of them want him to do.

It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it. It’s been impossible not to, in some regard. Hells, he’d thought about reaching orgasm with them that very first time he’d sat in. Kissing, in comparison, is _tame._

It’s not.

Yennefer kisses exactly how he imagines she might: with passion, and ferocity. It is awkward, for a moment, because it’s Yennefer and she and Geralt have a _thing,_ but then Jaskier lets himself forget about the uneasiness and lets himself give into it. She kisses unyielding, but he pushes back, just a little, and starts to understand why he always compares the two of them to clashing forces. Why she and Geralt always look push and pull, up and down, and when he kisses her harder, she pulls back. He chases, knees bracing against the mattress, hands fluttering uncertainly in midair. She had given him permission to kiss her. _Look, don’t touch._ He is, above all else, respectful. He doesn’t plan to let that change, whether it’s Yennefer or whether or not Geralt is assessing at his side.

“Allow me to help,” Yennefer says, and takes both of his wrists to guide his hands to either of her breasts. He puffs out a breath against her mouth, one of surprise and mirth, and he’s also beginning to understand, _first-hand,_ why Geralt is so hopelessly drawn to her. (Well, no, he’s _known._ But this is practice. That was theory.)

It is her permission as well, even though he suspects he might have already been granted it without saying. Courtesy.

He isn’t looking a gift horse in the mouth here.

He squeezes at the swell beneath his hands, cupping them– _ample, indeed–_ as he kisses her again. Chases his way into her mouth, seeks the taste of her– sharp, a bit bitter, like biting into unripened fruit– and something else, there, Geralt, maybe? on the taste of her tongue, and Jaskier’s. He shudders, and kneels atop the mattress when Yennefer retreats a half inch again. Pushing and pulling. It’s a tease. Jask surges forward, and follows her oh so obligingly when she lays back against the bed.

It isn’t the first time of the night he wishes she would have removed more clothing before going down on Geralt, although now it is more immediate, and relative to Jaskier. He can mold his hands to the shape of her tits, but can’t catch a nipple between thumb and forefinger or tongue and teeth. He can chase the shape of her body, hips to waist and the curves he traces heavily along, but he can’t feel the warmth of her skin or feel out birthmarks or freckles– although he does wonder if the latter holds too close to imperfection, and if she has any at all. He’s never been so close to notice, or maybe they had been taken away in her transformation. He doesn’t know, but now he wants to. 

He settles with the charcoal, steel, and gray beneath his hands, fabric of blouse and skirts he lets himself feel along. Yen bites at his lips until he tastes blood and he delights in it in a perverse way, and then turns his head to kiss at her jaw, her throat. He latches on there, and sucks, and licks and bites away the taste of sweat and perfume.

When her hands slide to his hips, it isn’t so much a surprise as it is a _reminder_ of his current condition– as if he can forget– and their closeness. _Then,_ he hesitates, breathing against her pulse and, like the first time he’d been invited into their room, wonders how this is supposed to end.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Yennefer is the one to answer the question. She presses her fingers into his skin. “I _sincerely_ hope you don’t intend to stop there.” Which, yeah, those words are enough on its own, but then her fingers, deft and godsdamn traitorous in all ways, yank his trousers open and he’s so very glad he hadn’t worn the ones with buttons today. She palms at him without removing them, and his hips buck, once, against the pressure and her hand. “Fuck me, bard. Teach the songs you sing.”

He really doesn’t need telling twice.

He’s hasty and rushed when he shucks his pants down mid-thigh, and then rucks her skirt up to meet in the middle; really, they both should be wearing far, _far_ less but right now, Jaskier can’t be asked to properly remove anything. If nothing’s getting ruined– well, even then. Fuck it. _Fuck me,_ she’d said, byzantium eyes demanding his attention, time, self. Well, Jaskier intends to give it.

He’d probably worry a bit more about her comfort if Geralt hadn’t been working her up throughout her own mouth on his cock, and it’s almost a surprisingly easy fit when the two of them slide together. For a moment, Yen’s breath catches and Jaskier thinks he almost comes on the spot, which would be _ridiculously_ poor timing re his self control skills and he’d never live it down. But he doesn’t, and takes only a moment to let her– and himself– adjust. Then they’re moving together, frenetic in a way he hasn’t been in some time. He almost looks over at Geralt– _almost–_ and then Yennefer grabs his face in her hands to pull him down to kiss, and throws a leg over the small of his back, and he’s efficiently distracted.

He’ll admit he’s not gentle. Neither is she. There’s going to be a bruise at his ribs and maybe blood in his scalp from her nails, biting and buried into his hair. She arches into him on every move, and he thrusts with the patience of that dying man who’s tasted the sweetest wine. He wants more, and more. He gives, she takes, and returns.

She yanks his hair hard enough to jerk his head back, and a curse falls between his lips. He shoves both hands on her shoulders, pinning her back, and pulls out nearly all the way to slam back in again. And again, and again.

It’s sheer force of will that he holds back until after she’s finished– or maybe it’s engrained urge to be polite, but all in all a miracle, given, well, _a weak breeze._ Maybe he’s easy, although he prefers the term ‘generous.’ Either way, she clenches around him and he’s gone, then, and somehow he _doesn’t_ collapse on top of her immediately after the world stops spinning, and goes blank, and he can’t see or feel or hear anything except the buzzing and crashing of waves of pleasure in his body and mind and skull– gods, she’s going to leave bruises on his temples, too, isn’t she– and then she laughs, and Jaskier trembles, and gasps, and his arms shake.

… it has been a _while_ since he’s done it like that.

She surprises him, then, not by being _Yennefer, evil temptress,_ but by… stroking his hair out of his face, and praising him. “Well, well done, Jaskier.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh, all of the anxiety and repressed tension and worry flooding out in a breath of hot air he stifles against her temple. “You, too.”

“ … you haven’t let me do that in four moons.” Geralt speaks, and the reality really comes crashing in. Jaskier nearly pitches himself off of Yennefer, but doesn’t make it that far; she smooths her hand up his spine before he can move, and he wonders if she’s consciously or unconsciously trying to work the tension back out of him again.

“Yet I wasn’t under the impression you _minded_ being on the bottom,” she says, tilting her head to Geralt.

Jaskier doesn’t follow her gaze. Can’t yet. Shit. He hopes this doesn’t royally destroy everything, although he can’t deny it had been fucking spectacular.

“I don’t.”

“So you’re grumbling just to grumble. _After_ I spent so long on you tonight, Geralt, that’s unbecoming.”

He hears Geralt laugh, just once, and then _Jaskier_ has to laugh, too; maybe things are okay. Maybe things aren’t dire. And then he has to kiss Yen again, just once more, when he pulls out but still leans in to touch his lips to hers again.

It’s different this time, slower and with heaps of gratitude instead of promise. His heart’s still pounding, but this makes it ache in a different way than before; softer, and sweeter, and so went the siren call of something he isn’t sure he can think about yet. The poet in him tells him it’s love. The side of him that’s just gotten a good fuck tells his bard nature to sod off.

He drops onto the bed between the two of them, because he can’t quite prop himself up longer and his legs still feel like jelly. No one protests. Maybe he’ll sleep here. He thinks he really wants to.

But he can’t avoid the inevitable; he tilts his head on the pillow to look up at Geralt, sheepish. A little uncertain still.

But Geralt just looks… _pleased._ And gentle all over again. _The way he looks at Yen,_ Jaskier thinks dizzily. That’s how Geralt’s looking back at him.

At least, until he raises an eyebrow and asks, dryly, “what, did you want a goodnight kiss from me, too?”

_Yes._

Jaskier winces, and then goes hot all over again. _Fuck,_ what is he _thinking?_

_“Honestly,_ Geralt,” he complains out loud, and hopes his voice doesn’t waver but he feels like it does. But he can blame it on Yennefer, and the come down from sex. “‘s like you’re begging me to stay in your bed for the night.” He plays it up, but rolls over so his back is to him, anyway.

Neither complains when he stays, and Jaskier lays awake and quietly hopes he never has to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, internally: amused, intrigued, definitely a little impressed, Soft, pleased  
> Geralt, externally: _hmmm._
> 
> __but also how bout those hard n fast Jask/Yen vibes huh 👌


	6. Chapter 6

Life goes on.

It has to; the world doesn’t stop turning because Jaskier’s wiggled his way into Geralt and Yennefer’s bed. It’s a low-key affair, anyway, which suits him just fine. They’re in and out of each other’s lives, as they always are. 

There’s three more times Jask partakes in watching in the following months, and he’s pretty sure he’d fallen asleep during the last time due to being in a swing of wedding season, constantly booked for entertainment, and being so godsdamned tired, but he doesn’t quite remember. All he remembers is waking up– still clothed, mind you, hands still smeared with ink– in their bed the next morning, and then he’d had to run to prepare in time for the latest soireé. 

And there’s one other time they engage, shortly after the seasons turn cold and Jask is prepared to sleep away winter. Yen finds him first, showing up at his home– and Jask can barely believe she’s on his doorstep, let alone explain who or why she was, after– and then Geralt soon thereafter. This time, Yen and Geralt kiss while she’s still astride Jaskier, and he just kind of stares while she fucks herself on his prick and Geralt braces a hand on her shoulder and Jaskier’s hip and they’re all well and truly connected, in whichever sense. And this time, Jask can’t help but watch _Geralt_ when Yen wrings the pleasure out of him, which feels… guilty, and wrong, and good.

Geralt makes a comment to the extent that they’re both attractive like that, _in whichever sense,_ and Jask admittingly takes that comment and jerks to it, alone, in the next few months when they’re apart.

Life goes on, and he thinks about Yennefer– and Geralt, always Geralt, too– a lot.

He gets deathly ill that winter. He’d like to think he’s exaggerating but he isn’t sure he is; it drags, and it drags, and he feels worse by the day, until he’s confined to bed and hacking up bloody phlegm, feverishly uncertain if he’ll make it through. And then Geralt shows up, abruptly there and just as wary, claiming he’d heard that _‘Master Jaskier’s been sick for a fortnight’_ and Jask can’t even be flattered that anyone had taken notice. He can’t even appreciate that _Geralt’s_ noticed. He feels like shit, plain and simple.

“You’ve really been this way for a fortnight?”

Jaskier tries to remember, but Geralt’s hands are uncomfortable, pressing and palpating in ways that make him ache and cough and nauseous. “A little longer?” he guesses, rasps, and Geralt swears. Jask shrugs, just a little, and tries to go back to sleep.

They go to meet up with Yennefer. Jask isn’t really sure how Geralt contacts her, anyway, but it’s fairly immediate; Geralt shows up in the evening and they’re on horseback come morning. He’s so woozy he nearly falls off of Roach, and Geralt holds him against his front, tucked beneath his chin when they go. Jaskier spends most of it in an uncomfortable doze, wanting to throw up.

They spend one night out on the road, and Jaskier has never been so cold in his life. He shudders with fever and strain after he tries to vomit for what feels like an eternity, and Geralt well and truly gathers him into his arms to hold, and try to fend off the chill of the night. Jask lets himself be held, and can’t linger in it.

Even Yen looks concerned when they meet up, but maybe it’s because Geralt nearly bursts into the inn she’d chosen with Jaskier in his arms, and Jask thinks, briefly, it must be dire. Maybe Geralt can smell death on him.

But he doesn’t die. He doesn’t know what Yennefer does– again– but he wakes up, very much alive. Achy as hell and a bad taste on his tongue, and the two of them hover around him for the next twenty-four hours before he can prove he’s fine.

They sleep as they have, with Jaskier tucked securely in the middle. He doesn’t put his head on Yen’s shoulder, just in case he’s still contagious– can she get ill, even?– and he doesn’t want to wake her because she looks more exhausted than _he_ feels, now, but that’s maybe from her use of magic. Geralt snores softly from where he’s curled against Jaskier’s back, and seems just as tired. It has been stressful, on their end. He supposes. 

Jaskier, impossibly, sleeps _more._

When he wakes up, one side of the bed is empty, and the room is back to its original state: leaky ceilings, stained curtains, an open storage chest and one rickety old stool. A lone candle, melted down to streaks of hardened wax. He knows the room had been magnificent last night. The magic is gone, and so are Yennefer’s things.

“Geralt…?” He looks around. Yen is really gone. This isn’t just her stepping out, she’s just… not here anymore. “Geralt.”

“Hm?”

“She’s gone.”

He can almost feel the tension flood into Geralt at the words, the way he stiffens ever so slightly from where he’s still nestled against Jaskier’s back. And he knows Geralt and Yennefer aren’t _conventional,_ and that the three of them are very far from, too, and this isn’t the first time she’s gone without warning, but… she hadn’t even said goodbye, and he hadn't even said thank you. 

Geralt sighs, long and low against Jaskier’s shoulder. His breath is warm and weary, and only distinctly unhappy to those who know him– Yen, and Jask– and… and he doesn’t move. Finding Yen now is probably futile, true, but… Geralt just presses in a little more, and mutters for him to go back to sleep.

It startles Jaskier, really. He’d… he didn’t know, expected Geralt to roll over and go down for breakfast or something. But he doesn’t. Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he’s comfortable. Maybe he’s needy, except Geralt of Rivia only got _needy_ for one woman and she had gone in the middle of the night.

… Jaskier doesn’t move. How _can_ he? _He_ is tired. _He_ is comfortable. And he’s never going to stop needing Geralt and Yennefer both. He doesn’t want to move. So he stays, too.

He stays, same as always.

Time passes uneventful after that, which is _fine,_ thank you, too many close calls without any good reason and he’s almost died _twice,_ and been saved by Geralt and Yennefer _twice._ And yes, he appreciates it more than he can say but? He’d rather not do it again. So, uneventful, thank the _gods._

Spring comes and goes, and he’s tipped off to Geralt and Yennefer’s arrival in Novigrad because the song arrives ahead of them. His song, the– tasteful, safe for public consumption– one he’d written following his first time with Yennefer.

_A sorceress by trade_ _  
__one with raven hair_ _  
__she draws all in so sweetly_ _  
__in ways that are all unfair._

_And when our witcher too_ _  
__found himself pinned down_ _  
__by a violet gaze_ _  
__he could not get around,_ _  
_ _  
__so he found his love_ _  
__that I do concur_   
_our dear naive Geralt_ _  
and his temptress Yennefer._

He’d thought it was _funny._ He still does, actually. He’s waiting eagerly when they show, Geralt looking faintly disgruntled, and beams when they make him buy their first round of drinks.

“You know I hate that one.” Geralt’s got a new scar, a deep one, over his neck. “If you were writing songs about us–”

“Then you know I’m going to take creative liberties and make them as outlandish as possible,” Jaskier interrupts, and leans across the table to prod at the scar. “What is this?”

“Nothing.”

“It was a bruxa,” Yennefer says, and Geralt sighs, sharp and low. “One evidently in love with a cursed man out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Remind me why I told you.”

“I haven’t the slightest, actually.”

“Cursed?” Jaskier sits back, and frowns. “Like Duny?”

“Worse.”

_“Worse?”_

“It’s not important.”

“That, _I_ agree with,” Yen says, and finishes off her ale. Jaskier looks at her, and she grins in that familiar way. “I think your song’s funny.”

_“Thank_ you! See?” He glares, mocking, at Geralt. _“She_ has good taste. She understands the power of parody.”

_“Is_ it parody?” Geralt asks, but his grumble is somewhat lessened by the fact he’s still sulking into his tankard.

“Not particularly,” Yen answers, and is still looking at Jaskier when she says, “I tempted him, too, after all.”

“You did,” he agrees. He keeps his voice low enough that no one overhears– not a story he wants to share, yet, there, and he wonders if he’ll ever particularly feel like giving up the most intimate, important parts of his own life, but then, he doesn’t get paid to write about _himself_ so he’s not really worried about it. The only people he wants to hear his words are the ones that do, and the three of them smile in varying levels of amusement as he does admit to it, willingly now.

They feel like home, and he’s more than happy to welcome them back.

The three of them stay up to an ungodly hour, and he wakes up with Yennefer’s mouth on his cock. Geralt holds him, again, _holds him down_ where he’s hugged against his chest, and covers his mouth so he can’t talk (which, he expects, is his punishment for talking _so_ much the night prior, but they had had _so_ much to catch up on! And he had wanted to know about that bruxa attack, damn it!) He doesn’t know if he intends to suffocate him, at first, and then he finds out he _does,_ which sends his head spinning in all kinds of directions, even after he’s woken back up from what he imagines had been a few moments of unconsciousness, if the black spots in his vision had been anything to go by.

It is undoubtedly the most… _active_ Geralt has been in regards to the three of them together, and Jaskier’s skin still prickles even after he curls back up to recover his strength. Geralt, with the power of choice beneath his hands, pressed firmly over Jaskier’s mouth. Geralt, taking Jaskier’s life in his hands, again, and again, and again. In every way. Jask likes that. He likes it a lot.

He also likes that Geralt had kissed away the spunk splattered across Yennefer’s face, which means Geralt has now _tasted_ him… but he’s trying not to focus on that. He’s failing, though.

He dares to rest his hand on Geralt’s arm, nonetheless, and wills himself to go back to sleep before he can think too hard again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the referenced choking/asphyxiation bit is, of course, my other fic that prompted all of this, [someone to pour myself into, ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22209379)so if you haven't read that one, go for it fam ✌️
> 
> bit of a filler but what necessary and nice details, huh


	7. Chapter 7

It gets worse before it gets better.

Look, he’s _fine_ with a little harmless pining! Gods know he’s done it enough through his life, and rejected propositions had always been bound to crop up sooner or later. So, for those he couldn’t have– or those who didn’t want him– Jaskier’s always been content with allowing himself a little yearning and then eventually moving along. So Geralt holds him while he sleeps and Jaskier puts his hand on Geralt’s bare arm from time to time, and permits himself that bit of that terrible, terrible yearning, and he expects that to be the end of it. He expects to go back to relative normal, as they have for years.

He is, frankly, an idiot.

There’s moments where Jask can’t even _look_ at him without getting flush, hot and embarrassed from head to toe. The fantasies he keeps oh so close to his chest– the ones that don’t even involve Yennefer. (In all fairness? She’s still _gone,_ more often than not, and it’s occasionally Geralt and Jaskier off on some adventure, like before. So he can’t help it, when it’s like that.) They haunt in the middle of the night, and well into the day. More than once, he’s noticed Geralt giving him odd looks when he blusters off with some piss-poor excuse to not look or touch or _talk_ to him, but better that than… he doesn’t know. The truth. 

It’s just… it doesn’t get any easier, when the three of them _are_ together. Jaskier only ever fucks Yen or vice versa, if he does participate, but he’s gotten a little more free in allowing himself to lean against Geralt, or turn his face into Geralt’s skin, or watch too closely for his reaction over the edge of climax. There’s so many facets. Jaskier has most of Yennefer’s, he thinks. He wants _Geralt’s,_ now. So he lets himself have some of them.

Geralt responds in kind, more or less. He’ll assist in holding him down, or pushing his hair out of his face, or rubbing a scarred hand against Jaskier’s bare skin while Yennefer has him. But Jask wants more. Oh, fuck, he wants more.

And then Geralt bites into his shoulder one morning, sharp and sudden and painful, and orgasm slams into him like a– a force of magic itself, just as sharp and just as sudden and almost just as aching. He aches. He _aches,_ when he slumps against him, and he wants to– he wants to–

“Oh, for the sake of the _gods,_ Jaskier, just kiss him already.”

His heart stops, for a moment, and then slams into his throat and beats harder than before. “W– _What?”_

“Yen,” Geralt complains, and– and _is_ he complaining? Because that makes Jaskier’s stomach drop to his feet; gods, he’s being pulled in so many directions. The part of his skin that’s pressed against Geralt prickles and burns. He wants to move and he can’t.

“It’s obvious,” Yennefer says, matter of fact as she sits cross-legged at the end of the bed, now. (Jask hopes it’s not obvious. It _wasn’t,_ was it…?) “Honestly, watching you pine has gotten a bit _boring,_ of late. Cute, at first. Grating, now, given your lack of _action–”_

He manages to squirm away. He wants to beg Yen to stop talking. He’d do anything, he thinks. “That’s not–”

“Jaskier, I am _decades_ older than you, and decidedly not as oblivious as some people are.” Here, she looks at Geralt over his shoulder. “I think it’s exactly what it is. And you’re too concerned about what the populace deems _respectable_ to do anything about it.”

“No–”

“Human life is too short to spend it trying to please the masses. Take it from me,” she continues, “you won’t manage it, no matter what you do. And you’ll find their opinions never mattered at all. If you want Geralt–”

His mind’s at war with itself. A barrage of _no_ ’s and _yes_ ’s banging about in his head and he can’t even find it in himself to _speak._ He has; he _does._ But he’s convinced himself it isn’t worth the… it isn’t worth it. And he is _happy_ with what they have, all three of them– 

_“Yen,”_ Geralt starts again, and his voice dips just low enough into a lazy warning that Jaskier shudders where he sits, disconnected from the both of them now. “Leave him be.”

 _“If you want Geralt,”_ she continues, like she hadn’t heard, “then stop pussyfooting around the fact and get on with it.”

… get on with it. Right. He wonders if Yen thinks she’s being kind. He thinks she’s being _cruel._

He looks away from the spot he’d been staring at on the wall, and then, he does something he hasn’t done in… over a decade:

he runs away.

Certainly he makes some hasty excuse before he all but flees the room, leaving his shirt open and grabbing his boots on the way out. But he doesn’t even know what he says. Probably nothing useful, but at least he’s sure it isn’t a declaration of intent and it’s safer this way. Cowardly– hells, he hadn’t ever run away! all the times he could have! all the times he’d _wanted_ to, scared to death on the road with Geralt, a _witcher!_ but he _hadn’t!–_ but– but– just, _honestly,_ what else was one to do when faced with a crisis of this kind?? Sit pretty and smile? He’d explain himself _later._ Right now, he needs some air. 

“Jaski–”

He closes the door on Geralt’s protest, although it… doesn’t _really_ stop him hearing Geralt and Yen continue to speak from their room.

“Why’d you have to say that?”

“Because he needs to grow up, Geralt. He’ll spend his whole life miserable for the sake of making someone else happy if he doesn’t, and we both know that it isn’t worth it.”

“And you couldn’t have picked a _different_ topic.”

“Why? I needn’t have. He loves you.”

Oh, Jaskier should _go._ He’s frozen in the hall, halfway to putting his second boot on.

“He loves certain company. Like you.”

 _“And_ Geralt of Rivia.”

“Last I checked, I’m not included in th–”

“Oh, don’t be so naïve, Geralt. I adore you, but you are _remarkably_ thick sometimes. Do you really think he–”

Jaskier stops listening, and wrenches himself from his solitary spot on the landing to hurry down the stairs.

He’s never going to be able to go back. Okay, no, he _will,_ he _knows,_ he’s that… pathetic– loyal, yes, loyal is a better word– but it’s going to be awkward as hell and he isn’t sure if they can just go back to… how they are. Because he doesn’t know if he can. Forget being caught writing raunchy poetry, what seemed like a lifetime ago. This was admitting to quietly having been in love with your very best friend for the past fifteen or so years.

 _“Fuck.”_ He swears under his breath and abandons his initial plan of getting a drink; he needs to get as far away from the inn as possible at this exact moment. The cold air bites his lungs as he walks, and he drinks it in like he deserves the pain.

… she’s right, and he knows it. He’s known for some time, and he’s never been able to truly work out in what _realm,_ but… yes. He does love Geralt. Scary as it is. Scary as it is to love _Yennefer of Vengerberg,_ too, but… they both mean so much to him, in recent years.

 _Probably_ why his first instinct had been to run, huh. Despite it all, Jaskier can’t help but… kind of laugh at himself. He’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous.

Roach nickers softly when he passes by the stables. Jask doubles back, because, if nothing else, Roach is a good and silent companion who doesn’t really seem to care if he talks to her or not.

“She’s right,” he laments, resting his head against Roach’s muzzle. She baps him gently in the face and he huffs a laugh, patting her neck. “Of course she’s right, who _wouldn’t_ get overly attached to Geralt of Rivia, huh? Gods. But why’d she have to say it like _that?”_

Roach snorts.

“Yeah, exactly. Who does she think she is??” _Yennefer of Vengerberg,_ he thinks miserably, and sighs. That about summed it up. “It’s just– it’s, it’s different, you know? She’s… _old,_ and tired and has nothing to lose, right? But me, I’m _human,_ I’ve got _everything_ to lose.” And ‘everything’ had started to feel an awful lot like ‘Geralt-and-Yennefer,’ these past few years.

Jaskier sighs again, and decides he’ll let himself stew in the stables for awhile longer.

Eventually, he gives up on the idea of continuing to wallow, if only mostly because Roach literally steals his half eaten apple right out of his hand as he’s chewing.

 _“Roach._ Oh, come on, that was my _breakfast–”_ There really was no rest for the wicked, was there? But he can’t help but laugh as she flicks her ears impassively. _“Seriously,_ you have all this hay,” he shoves a handful at her accusingly, “and you eat m– I said _hay!_ Not _hair!_ That’s my hair! Sheesh. _Women.”_ Still, Roach is Roach, and he can’t help but rub along her neck and smooth his fingers through her mane. Geralt’s right about one thing–

“See you’re talking to her now, too.”

Jask almost falls over at Geralt’s voice behind him. He hadn’t heard him come in– of _course_ he hadn’t heard him come in. “Geralt!” he complains, pressing a hand flat over his chest. “I’ve _told_ you about sneaking up on me! Just because _you_ have the power to creep around–” Geralt’s just _staring,_ eyebrows kind of raised, and Jaskier falters, and sighs, and then gives up. _“Fine.”_ He drops his hands back to his sides. “Fine, let’s just– just get it over with. Alright? Have at it.”

“Have at what?”

“At…” Gods, his mouth is going dry again. He wants to shrink under Geralt’s stare. “At– at what she said this morning. It wasn’t _that_ long ago. You can’t have _possibly_ forgotten.”

“You mean the implication that you’ve wanted to kiss me.”

Oh, fuck, it sounds worse coming from him like that. Worse and… also, frankly, fucking spectacular, too. Jaskier fidgets, and then forces himself to stop fidgeting. “That’s about the long and short of it, yes.”

Geralt shrugs. “You could have just done it.”

The rest of the moisture dries up on his tongue. “I… I really couldn’t have.”

“Yeah, you–”

“I have _decorum,_ Geralt, if you haven’t _noticed–”_

“Asked, then,” Geralt interrupts. “If that helps you sleep at night.”

“I…” _I still really couldn’t have._ But Jask doesn’t say that; it’s his turn to shrug instead this time.

“I can’t read your mind, Jaskier.”

… shit. He doesn’t know where this conversation is going. He aims to keep it light while his heart flutters in his chest. He makes a hand gesture in the likeness of the Axii Sign, and raises an eyebrow at Geralt.

“That influences your mind, not lets me read it. But you knew that.”

 _I did,_ he agrees mentally. But he still doesn’t know where this is going. Mind-reading would be easier. “So…”

“So you need to tell me what you want,” Geralt says. “Because I have it on good authority that I’m shit at this. We both can’t be shit at it. Yen’s words.”

He rolls his eyes. “Course they are.”

“Well?”

“‘Well’ what?” Jaskier repeats, and then fires back, “what do _you_ want, Geralt? After– after all this, what do _you_ want?”

True to _Geralt,_ he shrugs. And that kind of _infuriates_ Jaskier, just a little, because he wants an answer, _needs_ one– especially now.

“No– _no,_ don’t _shrug,”_ he retorts. “I want an answer, Geralt, I– I _need_ to know, okay–”

“I honestly have no idea, Jask. I don’t plan for the future. Ever.”

“Then, what about the _now?_ There has to be… _something_ you want, want to do.” He knows they’ve had this conversation before, but it’s _different_ now.

“I’m already doing what I want,” Geralt says, looking all too supremely unconcerned. “It’s that simple.”

“It’s…” _not._ But he knows maybe it could be. And if Geralt’s been _doing what he wants…_ Jask sighs, and just gives the fuck up. “I do,” he agrees quietly. “I do want you to want to kiss me the same way we kiss Yen, I think.”

“You think.”

Jaskier scowls. “I _do,_ alright. I– I, yes. She’s right. Okay?”

“Okay.” Geralt agrees, and then clears the distance between them to kiss Jaskier. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

And somehow, Jaskier’s still _shocked;_ he gasps into his mouth and then, before he can do something else colossally stupid, kisses him back. He doesn’t try to be coy, or chaste. He just… kisses him back, so godsdamn needy he nearly quakes with it, and wants to beg Geralt not to pull away, not to ever take this away from him, to let them work together as three combined rather than three separate in bed; he wants Geralt to take him apart, and he wants to take Geralt apart, too.

Oh, gods, Geralt kisses like he does everything else. He kisses him hard, and the bite from his shoulder _throbs_ in reminder of Geralt’s teeth there a few hours prior, and Jask whines, a little, embarrassingly, and– and– kisses him back, just as hard, just as determined. There’s no dancing around it now.

Even Geralt looks a little… he doesn’t know… dazed? when they break. Which is _amazing,_ because the only person who’s managed to do that to Geralt (that Jaskier knows of) is, of course, _Yen._

The three of them are going to have so much fun from now on.

He takes a step back. The wall holds him up, and he braces his shoulders back against it, and breathes, for a moment. Then he puffs out another short breath, and tilts his head, just to expose the skin at his neck and meet Geralt’s eyes. “Do it again, Geralt?” The way it comes out as a question instead of a statement belies his confidence, but he doesn’t add anything. Lets Geralt take the reins.

He does.

It’s thrilling in ways Jaskier’s not used to. Geralt’s hands against his arms and holding him in place, pushing him back against the wall. It hurts, a little, where the wood of the walls dig into his skin; his shirt barely dulls the pain and it’s another one of those moments where he just drinks it _in,_ and slips his hands up and into Geralt’s hair to pull it down. He looks too good with his hair all the way down. Jask wants to stare at it, and run his fingers through it, and he _does_ before he’s not allowed to later. (Although, if _the now_ proves anything? He’ll be allowed to. He might be allowed to–)

He’s just about (definitely) forgotten where they are until he hears the stable doors. Oh, he hears them _this_ time. He curses under his breath, and again when he hits his head back against the wall in his haste to pull away, except there’s nowhere to escape to and he’s already a little out of breath for the kiss, so it’s _fairly_ obvious, anyway–

Geralt tugs him aside. They end up slipping on the hay in the shadows and _he_ ends up half sprawled in Geralt’s lap, heart pounding and struggling not to laugh. Geralt must feel, feel his body shaking with silent giggles because he slips his hand over Jaskier’s mouth. It doesn’t dispel the absurdity of the situation, just makes it worse, but it does keep him quiet. More or less.

It isn’t until the riders take out their horses, and Jaskier thaws a little, that he realizes he’s _actually_ in Geralt’s lap, and– 

“Geralt,” he starts, slowly. Carefully.

Geralt interrupts. “It’s not a knife in my pocket.”

The flush rises anew, pleasure and pride. And relief. Gods, that too. “Let’s get back to Yen,” he says, and Geralt readily helps him to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god see what can happen if you plainly state your intentions and not run away from actual developing conversation? oh my god? boys? and now I've finally written the
> 
> Y: he loves you, Geralt  
> G: no, he's straight  
> Y: ._.


	8. Chapter 8

They don’t fuck after returning from the stables. Which is maybe just as well, considering. They go back to their room and the better part of the morning returning to the basics: feeling out the– new– addition to their relationship. Basically, Jask kisses Geralt a lot while Yennefer laughs it out over their hesitance.

And, _yes,_ he is hesitant. Because this is taking a friendship he’s had for over fifteen years, a very comfortable one, even, and turning it into… more. Romance. _Sex,_ barring that, even though he doesn’t yet quite work himself into feeling for Geralt’s erection as they sit on the bed. You couldn’t go from platonic friends to grabbing for a prick in the blink of an eye. At least, he couldn’t. That was why more casual dalliances had always been his speed. And if a friendship came out of those, well, a quick fuck was an ice-breaker and everything else was downhill. Jaskier still _has_ some very good friends that he’d met simply because he’d tried or succeeded in taking them to bed.

It’s almost nearly the opposite here. Geralt is already his friend, and now they’re moving uphill instead of down. A little complicated. But definitely worth it.

And yes, Yen had been right. On top of everything else, the… unspeakable nature of the thing does make him uncomfortable, makes him worry about public profile and social norms. He’s always been very much _live and let live–_ he doesn’t think that’ll change– but it’s different in practice, right? And Geralt’s hands don’t let him forget who he’s with.

He tries not to focus on it, though. It is, as he’s stated, completely worth the prickle of uncertain self-worth over it. More or less.

It does bring up a whole new _realm_ of sport, though. Working Geralt up becomes a game, and Jaskier and Yennefer can play it so well.

Yen’s the one to kiss their witcher awake, while Jask sits in the middle of the bed and traces along those witchering scars. He’d say the trade-off is unfair, but he’s wanted to map every one of Geralt’s scars with his fingers for a very long time. Now he does, and he almost forgets to keep an eye out for the moment consciousness dawns on Geralt again. Almost.

Geralt wakes up slowly, to Yennefer’s lips and Jaskier’s hands, and he’s already a bit morning hard by the time his eyes open enough to look between the two of them. He looks beautiful like that, Jaskier thinks. And yeah, he _always_ looks handsome, but there’s something about the grogginess and the faint furrow of his brow in confusion. It makes Jask want to lean forward and kiss it away, but then Yen moves to do it first. Geralt sighs, a long and low _hmmm_ that rumbles beneath his skin; Jaskier can feel it, vibrating beneath his hand when he presses it against Geralt’s chest.

“Good morning,” Geralt murmurs.

Jask drums his fingers once. Twice. “Good morning,” he greets. And then, because he’s only slightly impatient, he slides his hand over to a nipple and tweaks it between thumb and forefinger.

Geralt jerks, and his cock does, too, where it’s barely hidden away by the smalls he wears to sleep.

Yennefer laughs where she’s pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and says, “good morning.”

Geralt looks between Yen and Jask, eyes darting in mild suspicion. He settles on Jaskier. “You’re up early.”

“I like my beauty sleep,” he agrees, “but I _can_ be persuaded to rise before the dawn, Geralt.”

“With the right temptation.”

“Well, yes.” 

“He _is_ a good temptation,” Yennefer agrees, looking down at him. Almost… thoughtful, and they don’t have _plans,_ not really, but something in Jask thrills at that look, a little.

Geralt must sense it, too, if the tiny little squirm he gives is anything to go by. That’s good. Gods, that’s so good. He presses his head back against the pillow, arching his back off the mattress as he stretches. “I’m not even trying. I’m barely awake.”

“Best get you to full awareness then.”

Jask hums an agreement, and moves to tangle his fingers with Geralt’s. That way he can lift his hand to his mouth, and press a lingering, thoughtful kiss against his palm.

“Tempt me, instead,” Geralt says, pushing a piece of Yen’s hair behind her ear with the hand Jaskier isn’t holding.

“Oh, you’d like that.”

“I would.”

For a second, he thinks they’re going to be derailed. Because Geralt looks good like that, spreading himself out across the mattress _just_ so. And he thinks he probably would let himself be distracted, because… _because_ Geralt looks so good. But that isn’t their intention–

Before he can decide one way or the other, there’s a tiny _pop!_ of displaced air and the _feeling_ of magic; there’s suddenly bonds at Geralt’s hands, his wrists, pulling his hand from Jaskier and both up and over his head. Jaskier gapes, and Yen smiles, while Geralt curses and tugs against the rope.

_“Yen.”_

“Oh…” Jask breathes out, reaching up to touch the straining muscles at his arm. And then to follow the line of his arm up to test the rope himself. “That’s _good.”_

“I thought so.”

“You know I hate that,” Geralt says. “At least tie it without magic.”

“Shock factor is fun.”

Laughing, Jask returns to sitting in the middle of the mattress. He’s pretty sure– magic or not– Geralt could break those bonds if he wanted. But he hasn’t, complaints aside, so Jaskier’s also pretty sure he’s just blowing smoke here. And that’s good, too. That he could pull away and doesn’t.

“Isn’t that right, Jaskier?”

He nods his assent. “Part of the job, really.”

“That’s what I thought, too. Get his legs, will you? If he behaves, I won’t bind them, too.”

He blinks, contemplates, and then nods again. “Sure.” It’s a little… _intimate,_ it’s a given, but he crawls over until he’s essentially straddling Geralt’s thighs, and settles there. “Even though he could throw me off in two seconds flat. Probably doesn’t notice me sitting here.”

“I _notice,”_ Geralt says, and his voice is softer, lower. It makes Jaskier want to squirm, but he smiles down at him instead.

“Well, cheers, then.” He settles in a little more comfortably, and only hesitates a second before leaning to press his hands against Geralt’s chest again. “Glad I’m noticeable.” 

“You’re _impossible_ to not notice.”

“Gods forbid I fade into obscurity while your fame flourishes.”

“Write a song about yourself.”

“You’re a better topic.”

“I dunno. You’ve got… merits.”

“Oh?” Jaskier cocks his head, and smooths his palms over Geralt’s abs and scars and nipples again. “Tell me some.”

“Jaskier, dear bard,” Yen interrupts, “you’ve many fine qualities. One is of the ability to focus on _Geralt,_ yes?”

Not that he’d _mind_ Geralt singing his praises, but later… later. “Yeah, yes. Your turn.” He gestures, and watches when she leans over to kiss him.

He never does get tired of watching.

It’s exemplified by the fact he can _touch_ now, feel and linger against the skin that’s always just a little bit cooler than a normal human’s. _It’s because I’m cold-hearted,_ Geralt had said once, and Jaskier disagrees. He just needs someone to warm him up, and here they are.

_Here we are._

He braces his hands on Geralt’s hips, and shifts up another careful fraction of an inch so he can lean forward himself, and press his lips against his sternum. It’s obscene, a little, the position, and being pressed so close. But it isn’t the first time he’s had Geralt’s cock mostly innocently pressed up against him, and he’s determined to let the awkward fade with each subsequent time.

He continues the assault, lips and teeth and tongue over skin, until Geralt’s shifting again beneath his touch. And getting harder, caught in the loop between Yen capturing his mouth and Jask trailing along his skin. Good… good.

Jask squeezes his hands at Geralt’s hips, and then dips low to press a careful kiss at the joint where abdomen meets thigh. He hears Geralt breathe out. Then he nuzzles there a little, testing. Testing himself and Geralt and… boundaries. Always their boundaries. He swallows, rubs tiny little circles at Geralt’s hipbone. 

It is tempting, increasingly so, to turn his face and pass his lips over the bulge straining at that thin layer of cotton, mere inches from his mouth. Dizzyingly tempting.

“Did you plan to suck him, then?”

Jaskier winces slightly. No. Not now. Their boundaries, and his own. He shakes his head, just a little. “No.” Geralt sags, and Jask realizes maybe Geralt had _wanted_ him to. That he’d allow him to. But he isn’t sure, for now. So he breathes in the smell of Geralt’s skin, and then sits up. “That’s playing fair,” he says, turning to look at Yennefer. “Don’t wanna play fair, huh, Yen?”

Geralt groans. “Jaskier.”

There’s amusement on her face, but he doesn’t know if it’s at his expense, and he doesn’t really mind either way. “Not particularly.”

_“Yen.”_

The neediness in his voice makes Jaskier grin, and _ignore_ him. He leans forward to kiss Yen instead, quick and hard. She responds in kind, and together they pretend Geralt doesn’t exist.

But, oh, he does.

He’s difficult to ignore, as always, and it’s a vested effort to _not_ look back for his reactions. Still, he just about manages as he undresses Yennefer, and she undresses him, and then he doesn’t have to look for Geralt’s reaction at all because the man takes a sudden, great effort in unseating Jaskier, where he’s still settled somewhat straddling his thighs. Jask half sprawls, half goes on his own accord to avoid a knee to the balls, and laughs against Yen’s shoulder as he steadies himself against her body.

“Jaskier,” Geralt complains again, “if you’re going to _undress_ her–”

He doesn’t finish; Yen glances over Jask’s shoulder and there’s that magic again, the kind he can hear and _feel_ these days, and then Geralt curses, low and guttural instead. _“Fuck.”_

“I _told_ you to behave, Geralt,” Yen admonishes, and Jaskier almost _giggles._ It’s so profoundly… absurd, all of this, and it feels _nice._ It feels like the most comfortable relationship he’s been in, and… he guesses that’s what he’s calling it, nowadays. A relationship.

It’s in part due to the warm feeling expanding in his chest again, but that also may have something to do with Yennefer’s face as his fingers fit so easily inside of her. She comes first, and Geralt writhes and strains behind them (and still, doesn’t break those bonds.)

And he hasn’t come yet himself, _but_ he thinks that’s alright for now. He’s already moving a hand languidly against his cock, as he settles in behind Yen and finally focuses back in on Geralt. He’s a bit of a wreck, insofar as much as Geralt gets; red in the face, a little sweaty, _sour-faced_ as Jask rests his chin on Yennefer’s shoulder and grins at him.

“Jealous?” Jask asks, because he’s feeling good and high and _cocky._ Geralt will probably smack him for it later, but right now, he’s on top of the world again.

“Yes,” Geralt retorts. “But you knew that.” His eyes flick to Yen, a little more beseeching. He’s trying for the puppy eyes.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Jask says into Yen’s neck. “He hasn’t even started begging yet.”

“Please.”

Had it really been so long ago that Yen had made Geralt beg like that, in that monotone, and Jaskier had been so _jealous?_ Now Geralt does it in response to him, too, immediate and sincere. And Jask rides higher, and higher.

“What do you think?” Yen asks, tilting her head to Jaskier. “Good enough?”

Jask pretends to contemplate, and nuzzles her ear. “… no, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, Melitele’s tits,” Geralt mutters under his breath.

Jask grins, and slips both hands around Yen’s waist, sliding them up to squeeze at her breasts. He’s not only feeling sly. He’s feeling sinful, just now. “Why not Yen’s?” he muses, and doesn’t look away from Geralt when he says it. “I like Yen’s.”

“I’d _like_ to like Yen’s. Come closer.”

Yennefer doesn’t move. Jask doesn’t either.

“Fuck.” Geralt’s stare is withering. “Do _something.”_

She turns her head. “You haven’t come yet, have you?”

“No,” he replies, and shifts just so his cock is trapped up against her spine. “But–”

“Not _that,”_ Geralt growls. “Not _him.”_

“Aww.” Gods, he loves teasing him. “Why not me?”

“Because you get off watching. Yen,” he tries again, appealing directly to her. “Please. Fuck me. _Please,_ before I tear these fucking ropes to shreds.”

Geralt is, _of course,_ correct in his assessment, and the way his cock throbs against Yennefer’s back only proves it further. And he likes hearing Geralt. He likes hearing Geralt’s voice say things like that, _please_ and _fuck me._

He drags his hand back to his prick, and starts to palm along it again. “I guess you should fuck him, then,” he agrees. “Gods forbid he destroys your magic bondage, Yen.”

“The gods forbade a lot of things this morning,” Geralt retorts, and pushes his hips up. “And yet we’re still at it. Your hands, _now.”_

“Yes, yes, needy thing.”

Their witcher shudders when Yen takes him in hand, and Jask watches when his eyes flutter closed. And he couldn’t look away if he wanted– thankfully he doesn’t want to– but just nudges a little closer when Yen moves to accommodate Geralt, and Jaskier flicks his thumb over the head of his cock to spread the slick dripping there. Geralt looks like the popular depictions of all incubi when he’s all needy like that, not only spread out like he’d been, that very first time Jask had watched them in the tavern (he’s never forgotten that, and never will) but openly wanting, too. Openly wanting the both of them.

That’s enough to get him off on its own, but the fact is that he gets to take in Geralt in all of his neglected glory. He’s managing an awkward combination of stroking along his cock and rutting up against Yennefer’s back, all while not taking his eyes off Geralt, and– so very lucky– _he_ gets to watch as Geralt arches off the bed, curses spectacularly (Yen’s name, here) and spills in thick, white spurts across Yen’s hands.

Jask is– _somehow–_ the only one left hanging by a thread. And it’s different now, when it’s active, and he’s the last one left unsullied… it’s so patently _ridiculous,_ actually, that he laughs against Yen’s hair and continues to thrust against her weakly. “I win,” he breathes, because he is and he _has,_ in the way Yen had looked stunning when she’d clenched and released around his fingers, and Geralt had looked rapturous with his body pulled taut against ropes and his need. And because he’s held on the longest through all of that. Yes, he _wins_ this morning. 

“Miracle of miracles,” Geralt says, a little rough and still out of breath. He’d managed to finally pull through one of the ropes, and he’s now pushing his hair out of his face. “That.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, but it is kind of true. And he doesn’t mind. But he just… _needs,_ just a little bit more. “Geralt…”

“Hm?”

“Talk to me.”

“Huh?”

He’s not embarrassed for asking. “Sing my praises,” he orders, because he can’t let that little brief moment of conversation from earlier go, Geralt mentioning his merits, and Jask wants to hear them.

Giving how much they’ve tortured him this morning, Geralt could easily tell him things he doesn’t want to hear. But he does, still in that same voice that’s dripping with sex, and tells him how his singing is good– what a change from years ago– and that his lyrics are witty– a double whammy– that his hands are multi-talented and how much Geralt enjoys the callouses on his fingers as he traces his skin. He tells him how much he enjoys his hands, and his eyes, and the way he babbles when he’s close– _sorry,_ he thinks dryly– and his loyalty, and his strength, and his courage.

It should feel superficial, given Geralt’s usual tone of voice. But it doesn’t. It just sounds honest, and true, and Jaskier lets himself believe all of those things Geralt says. Because he is what he says. A witcher wouldn’t lie.

Geralt tells him he’s handsome when he comes, and Jaskier does.

He sags onto Yen afterwards, heavy and tired and oh so satiated. Geralt’s rumbling a laugh and Yen is complaining about Jask leaning onto her, and he can’t move; he can only laugh. “Yeah,” he manages. He squeezes his arm around her waist and pats Geralt’s leg, as it’s the only part of him he can reach right now. “Love you, too,” he says, unthinking.

And he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in tune with the show, the next and final chapter is happening after a time skip! it takes place more in witcher 3 verse (so about ~ten years ahead of Netflix version) but you don't need to know the game to enjoy. that being said, if you do know the game, delight in the easter eggs :p
> 
> otherwise ch9 is also heavy geralt/jaskier + yen so if you'd rather duck out, do feel free to end on this note!! thank yall, can't wait to have you experience the final chapter :D


	9. Chapter 9

The dream happens when he’s alone, when Geralt’s off gods-know-where and Yennefer’s off doing gods-know-what, and that is just about the only saving grace he gets. Because otherwise, he’d be the subject of a hell of a lot of ridicule for having a, ah, sleep orgasm. Melitele preserve him.

Even worse that it comes after a particularly graphic dream about fucking _Geralt._ Having him bent over one of the tables in The Chameleon– which utterly derailed the point of _cabaret_ vs _brothel,_ mind you– for all of his protests that his establishment wasn’t _like_ The Rosemary and Thyme– well, anyway, he dreams about taking Geralt and then wakes up sticky and sweaty and vaguely ashamed. Less ashamed than he should be, these days, but that was just the way of things, being happy and content with Geralt and/or Yennefer.

What’s even _worse_ is that it’s still haunting him by the time Geralt shows up, Yen and Ciri in tow, good gods. Cirilla’s properly grown now, well into embracing her adulthood– and place as unofficial witcher, these days. She behaves like she’s the birth child of Geralt and Yennefer in ways that are scary and prideful both. And he loves her dearly; he’s never been one for the thoughts of settling with a child– _ever–_ but there had been a while there where she’d called him _Uncle Jaskier_ and hadn’t that just tickled all?

He’s delighted to see her, truly. But it does kick the awkward level up a few notches, even when they settle in to discuss what she’s been up to while she absolutely destroys him at gwent, damn her. Definitely Geralt’s child through and through.

“You’re giving him eyes.”

Guilty, Jaskier looks back at her. “What’s that?”

“Geralt,” she says, and Jask winces. He keeps forgetting she _knows,_ because he can’t fathom she’s an adult now and– ah, fuck it. Ciri laughs, pushes a piece of ashen hair behind her ear, and reaches for her tankard. “I can let you catch up with him. And Yen. No need to entertain me. You’re rubbish at cards anyway.”

“I _beg_ your pardon.” Who is he kidding? He’d let her win, anyway, even if she wasn’t gifted at it. “And I’m not giving them _eyes–”_

“You are,” she teases. “They’ve been in Toussaint a long while. I heard you didn’t visit.”

“I _couldn’t,”_ he protests. “I had renovation–”

“That you just couldn’t step away from.”

“I don’t _trust_ anyone else. This place has been my lifelong dream–”

“Yes, yes, we know,” Ciri laughs, waving her hand. “But don’t take offense when I say I’ll find a different place to sleep tonight. Given the hungry eyes and my endless struggle of avoiding Yennefer and Geralt having it off.”

“You’re–” He splutters, but she hasn’t changed at all. “You’re _terrible,”_ he complains, lying and they both know it.

“I am!” she agrees, and drains the rest of her drink before getting to her feet. “Go reunite with them. I’m sure they’ve missed you, too.”

“Well, of course they have,” he jokes, but he isn’t joking. They all know it.

He waits until he’s sure she’s well and truly gone off into the city, by which time Geralt and Yen have already claimed out the _suite_ for their own again and are waiting on him. Slightly more classy than a table downstairs, he thinks, and goes flush and warm as he greets them.

“Welcome back.” He’s excited– he is. He can’t _not_ be; it has been a long while and dreams notwithstanding, he’s happy to see them again. Unchanged, mostly. Geralt probably has new scars and Yen seems like she’s wearing a slightly _less_ dark shade of grey, so maybe the stay in Toussaint has gotten to her. But they’re the same as he knows, and he beams as he locks the door. “Sorry, Ciri–”

“– called you on your bullshit and sent you on your way,” Geralt interrupts, and Jask groans.

“You _heard._ You _arse.”_

“She’s not an idiot, Jaskier,” Yennefer says. “Not to mention the one time–”

“We agreed never to bring that up,” he interjects swiftly, and crosses the room. _“Yes,_ she did, the minx, but nevermind, I’m free for the moment.”

Geralt looks at him, then, long and hard and in a way that makes him go _even more hot,_ and makes him squirm and then fluster up. _“What?”_ he complains. “Stop looking for wrinkles, it hasn’t been _that_ long.”

“Not wrinkles I’m looking for.”

“What are you–”

“You’re puffed up more than usual.”

“His face _is_ red.”

“Would you stop looking at my _face?”_

“He’s been fantasizing about us.”

“I–”

“What fantasies?”

“I’m not _telling.”_

“Tell me your fantasies,” Geralt says, and Jask sees his hand twitch for the briefest second and doesn’t even have time to protest before his mind goes _blank,_ and when he resurfaces, Yen’s looking thoughtful and Geralt’s even looking a little chagrined, _damn him and his Signs–_

“Oh fuck! You _arse.”_

“Yes, you’re quite interested in Geralt’s, by the sound of it,” Yen agrees, and Jaskier simmers in humiliation. He’s not angry, not really. Geralt’s made him talk with Axii before– oh, it didn’t let him _read_ his mind, but it could make Jaskier _spill_ his mind willingly– and it always plays out to his benefit, but _gods._ He wonders how much detail he’s gone into. He’s glad he doesn’t know.

_“Yes,_ thank you,” he complains, and turns away. “I suddenly just remembered, I’ve a wine shipment today–”

“I’ve done it before to him before,” Yennefer says.

Oh, fuck, Jask isn’t going anywhere. He stops with his hand on the lock, and then glances over his shoulder. “What do you mean, _you’ve_ done it.”

_“Magic,”_ she says with a flourish, and rolls her eyes.

His own voice comes out as flat as hers. “A magic prick.”

“Not as good as the real thing,” Yen says, “but sometimes we have to make do, don’t we?”

_We do,_ he agrees mentally, and then– “And?”

“And?”

“How did he take to it?”

She looks across the room, and Jaskier sighs. And gives in, and turns to face Geralt, too. They are _very_ good at not letting him run away, Yennefer especially.

Geralt’s still looking almost a little pink in the cheeks, which is _lovely,_ but it also brings up the fact he doesn’t usually get red unless they’re in the heat of sex, so– “It was an experience.”

_“Theatre_ is an experience,” Jaskier protests. “What does that _mean_ to you?”

“It means I’d do it again,” Geralt says, and smiles so sly– hesitant, even, but sly nonetheless– Jaskier’s knees almost go weak again. Godsdammit.

“Oh,” he manages, and then decides he really needs to go kiss him. So he does.

They fool around like that for awhile, touching and kissing and– briefly– a bit of a tussling match where Jask finds himself overeager and utterly fails at pressing Geralt back into the bed. “Boys,” Yen chastises, and Jask offers a hand to her without looking away from Geralt, begging her to _help him_ where he’s lost the battle. She distracts Geralt by kissing him, and Jask thanks her by slipping his arms around her and biting a bruise at her neck.

“Have either of you ever been bit by a higher vampire?” he muses out loud, soothing the spot with a kiss.

“Are you asking me if Regis has bit me?” Geralt deadtones, and Jaskier scoffs.

“No, not– just in _general.”_

“No,” Yen says.

“Yes,” Geralt says, which really isn’t a surprise.

“Well?” Jaskier raises his head. “What was it like?”

“It– is this about that stupid fucking rumor?”

“Maybe.”

“Vampire bites do not feel like _sex,_ Jaskier. Do _not_ try it.”

“I wasn’t going to try it.”

“Some idiot started that idea… fuck, what a mess.”

“Just curious.”

“You and everybody’s mother.”

It’s probably a hassle for witchers, he knows, but he can’t help but laugh. “I’d rather you bite me, anyway.”

“C’mere, then.”

He’s well hot under the collar– bruised under the collar, too– when Geralt broaches the subject from earlier again. “What’s your agenda, Jask?”

He sighs, slumping back against the pillows. He wants to keep going, but he doesn’t have the luxury. “We don’t have _time,_ now. I’ve got to get back.”

“You’ve been here this long and nothing’s caught fire,” Yen remarks. “I think they can manage.”

“Yes, but we’ve a performance tonight and, as patron host, I can’t not be downstairs.”

“Give me a performance here,” Geralt mutters, and, oh gods, he wants to. But…

“Geralt. Stop tempting me. This is business and pleasure and I never mix the two.”

“I know.” Geralt sounds a little amused, so he’s just screwing with him, Jask knows, but shirking his responsibilities is sounding more and more tempting by the moment. “Go tend your cabaret, Jask.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Thank you, Yen,” he retorts. “Besides, I need… we need time. To do it properly.”

_“Properly?”_

“I want to do it _right,_ Geralt.”

“He means to take his time,” Yen adds. “Meaning he intends to make you suffer.”

“Not–” Jask stops, contemplates. “Well. In some ways, yes,” he admits, but it does require more time and patience and definitely a stiff drink or two. And he can’t do that now, on limited time and with decorum needed later. “Tomorrow, maybe. After everything settles down here.”

“Fine,” Geralt says, and drops back into the pillows as well. “But we’re keeping the room tonight.”

“Free of charge,” Yennefer says, and Jask rolls his eyes.

“Like I’d make either of you pay anyway.”

“Guess I’ll pay later,” Geralt muses, “huh.”

Jask can’t help but laugh, and agree, and agree.

“No amount of foreplay is going to get me _loose,_ you realize.”

_“Geralt.”_ Jask is practically humming with energy. He’s long since given up on pretending he isn’t excited at this prospect. But he still affects his most outraged air, because he wants to be extravagant tonight. “Funny enough, I _know_ how an arsehole works. He takes the romance out of everything.”

“He always has,” Yen agrees. She’s been half lounging across Geralt, leaving red marks up his chest for the better part of quarter of an hour. “I show up naked, once, before a particularly dangerous hunt, and all he tells me is that my outfit wasn’t very practical for witcher’s work.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Oh?”

“I told him to show me just how witchers did their duties.”

Jaskier chuckles, reaching for his prick. It’s interested in the proceedings, has been since he’d excused himself from work early on ‘urgent business.’ (A phrase known well in his circle, although they didn’t know or need to know the details asides from him meeting his paramour. Paramours. Fitting term, almost. They truly _were_ illicit, after all.) Add in Yen making over Geralt and a little self-flagellation with his hand down his trousers, and the promise of tonight… it only takes a few strokes to get wholly up again. “And did he?” he asks, working himself on it.

“Thoroughly and three times.”

Jaskier whistles, spurring Geralt into a lunatic’s smile and urging him to lean to nose along the swell of Yen’s breast. “I could do it again,” he says, wasting no time in sucking that nipple between his lips.

“Yes, I– ah–” Jaskier watches the way her head falls back, that minute amount, and the way she pats at Geralt’s hair before tapping condescendingly. “I appreciate the offer, Geralt, but you’re saving yourself for Jaskier, remember.”

The turn of phrase makes him shudder. He forces himself to hold still for the count of ten, hands included. He doesn’t dare move. He barely dares breathe.

“I can have multiple orgasms,” Geralt says placidly.

Jask can’t help himself from moving his mouth, though, same as usual. “Who says I won’t give you multiple?” He mutters it under his breath, mockingly self-deprecating and entirely too cocksure. But Geralt hears him. Of course he does.

He looks back at him, gaze steady, and, “you’d have to prove you could _do_ something, anything at all, first.”

It hits like a hammer to anvil, and burns as hot as the forge itself. It’s a taunt, and Jaskier lets himself be provoked. “Turn over, then,” he orders, and swats at Geralt’s thigh. “Since you need it so badly.”

“Yeah. Let me feel how you fuck Yen.”

His mouth goes dry again. The things Geralt can _say,_ in that voice of his… “Turn _over,_ you brute, lest I snap _before_ I’m inside you.” The things _he_ can say, when he’s feeling so inspired.

“You both.” Yen might roll her eyes, but Jask knows that look anywhere. It’s as close to fond as she lets herself express, in the moment. “Are–”

“Entirely predictable,” Jask and Geralt say together.

The laughter bubbles over, high and excited. He rests his hand against Geralt’s hip as he settles in on his stomach, and squeezes briefly there when Yennefer swears.

“Shit. I hope I’m not becoming–”

“Dear Yen, you’ve become _almost_ as predictable as Geralt,” Jaskier says, and knows he’ll probably get a smack for it. “We’ve been doing this for so long, it’s almost–”

“Don’t tempt me to try something _new,_ bard.”

“Why not?” He strokes down the side of Geralt’s thigh. “You sure have a good time persuading me to try new things. Geralt?”

“You haven’t _done_ anything, yet,” he grouses. “Although I would give all of Vimme’s bank if you would just–”

“Don’t be rude to Vivaldi. He handles my finances.” Jaskier pats the back of Geralt’s leg, and moves to straddle his thighs instead. “And as overbearing as I am, Geralt, I need you to–”

“I’m _fine,_ Jaskier.” He shifts, slipping his arms beneath a pillow. “I’m not backing out at the eleventh hour.”

“And yet I am very adamant about options.” He stares down at the span of skin before him, harsh angles and those terrible scars. It never stops him thinking Geralt’s beautiful in ways the witcher hates being told– probably, he prefers _handsome,_ which applies as well, but there’s an innate beauty in Geralt and Yennefer both that had drawn him here, and… well. He chews at his knuckles for a second, drinking in the trust of the matter. Witchers didn’t expose their backs to just anyone. Jaskier’s known that for a long while now. “Hand me that oil, Yen,” he says, without looking away, and she obliges.

“Did you intend my assistance?”

“Maybe.” He pours a liberal amount into his palm. “I mean, probably. You’re familiar with this, I’m not.” 

“That’s encouraging,” Geralt intones.

He’d smack him again, if he wasn’t trying to warm this oil first. “That’s _not_ what I meant and you know it. I’ve just never had something up my arse, Geralt.” Geralt rumbles a laugh. Jaskier flexes his fingers. “When’s the last time you and Yen did this?”

“Few decades ago.”

“But that– that would have been when you first _met.”_

“Sounds right.”

“You–” he splutters, a little. “Gods, Geralt. You’re both incorrigible. And you’re just– that was ages ago. You’re practically a virgin again.”

“Oh, yes,” Yen laughs. “He’s pure as driven snow.”

Jaskier grins, resting his fingertips on Geralt’s arse. “Well, dunno about _that.”_ It feels a bit stupid, really, doing this with hardly any preamble. They’ve been going, yes, they’ve had _foreplay,_ yes, but Geralt’s right. No amount of working him up is going to help with this. So it’s time to be practical, and Jask is tired of waiting. “Ready?” he asks, directing the question back at Geralt.

“Just fucking get on with it, Jaskier.”

He huffs, thrilled and agitated both. Then he slides his hand down along the cleft of his arse, and presses the tip of his pointer finger in. And there’s something spectacular about the way Geralt clenches around him, a body trying to push out the obstruction in a way neither Jask or Geralt wants. Body over mind. Mind over matter. “Relax, Geralt,” he reminds, keeping his hand still until Geralt relaxes bit by bit around him.

Jaskier is a little in awe, in more ways than he usually is with any woman he’s lain with. The sight of his finger disappearing into Geralt’s arse… he slips it in past the second knuckle, and Geralt grunts softly into the pillows.

“Okay?”

_“Yes._ Fuck.”

Despite all, he’s curious. “What’s it feel like?” Not a question he would have asked Yennefer. Not a question he would have gotten a straight answer over, but it’s different regardless. And he knows it’ll get him the eventual _why don’t you try it and find out?_ question, but he can’t stop himself from asking.

“Like a finger up my arse.”

_“Geralt.”_

“I don’t know.”

“Try,” Jaskier orders, crooking his finger.

“Fuck– full,” Geralt snaps. And then a breath, and a little softer, “intrusive, in a good way. Sensation. I don’t _know,_ Jaskier. You do words, I don't. It’s good. That’s enough.”

He likes Geralt like this. Likes working him open while he’s stumbling over those words, trying to put things to detail for Jaskier’s sake. He likes it when he says he’s doing things that are _good,_ as ever. So he smiles gently, pulls back for more oil, and continues.

Two fingers, three knuckles deep, he does… something. Geralt doesn’t say a word, but he _tenses,_ body straining at every point Jaskier can feel. He doesn’t tell him to stop. Tentatively, Jaskier does it again, testing the waters.

This time, Geralt swears under his breath. Just a word, just a syllable of near silence that still splits the air. _“Shit.”_

“Geralt?”

“Again,” Geralt says, and presses back into Jaskier’s fingers. Fucking himself on Jaskier’s hand. He certainly isn’t going to stop him, and when he curls his fingers, Geralt drops his face into the pillow and groans.

“You found his prostate,” Yen says, leaning over. Jaskier’s mouth falls open in a silent _‘oh’_ and he aims to stimulate it on purpose. Geralt curses and writhes and keeps pushing back. “Well _done,”_ Yen continues. “Press on it with all three.”

He rushes now, slick and messy and eager. He makes up with enthusiasm what he lacks in finesse, and Geralt’s panting by the time he’s taken three. But he hasn’t asked for a reprieve and Jaskier’s more thrilled than before. This isn’t like with Yen. He has to _know,_ what Geralt can take, and what Geralt’ll give back in return.

It takes a long few seconds– frustrating, both to him and Geralt, who breaks with a _“Jaskier”_ that is absolutely more pleading than anything else– but when he finds it again– signified by the way Geralt moves, and breathes, and speaks– he doubles down to push him further than they’ve managed before.

He doesn’t count to thirty– not that he _is_ counting, anyway– before Geralt goes _taut–_ no other word. Like a puppet with its string being pulled, stiff as a board and clenched around Jaskier’s fingers. Then he nearly arches off the mattress with the orgasm, one that seems to go on and _on._ Jask can’t _feel_ the waves, not in the same way he can when he’s balls deep in Yennefer, but he can still feel it. The bearing down around his hand, the tension pulled tight in Geralt’s thighs beneath him. And then, after Jaskier has to curl his free hand around his own cock, tight as a vice himself to stop his own impending climax, Geralt finally sags into the blankets, breathing harshly.

Jask feels like he’s just witnessed the second coming of the gods. Yen breathes out at his side, and says, “oh, we have _definitely_ got to do that again.” He agrees wholeheartedly.

“Geralt…?” He swallows, and tries again. “Geralt.” The lack of immediate response puts him a little off, and he’s never heard Geralt breathe so hard outside of battle. “Hey,” he prompts gently, resting a careful hand at the small of his back. “Okay?”

“Mm. Hm.”

“You alright?”

“Need a minute,” Geralt mumbles, voice muffled from where he’s dropped his face into the pillow.

Oh. _Good._ That’s fine. That’s good. Jaskier grins, relieved and thrilled in one. “I’ve fucked him out,” he says.

Geralt groans, and Yen rewards Jask by drawing him into a kiss that leaves him even more dizzy and out of breath than he already was before.

“And you haven’t even proper fucked him yet,” she remarks, and pecks again against his lips.

Oh trust him, he _knows._ It’s testing his patience, but he’d willingly do _that_ again and again without any attention paid to his own cock if he had the offer. The torture of the thing is cancelled out by the show, but everyone had to pay the price for admission. “But next time–”

“No,” Geralt interrupts.

“W–What…?”

“You promised me multiple.”

“I…” _Oh._ “… did not _promise,”_ he complains. “Don’t twist my words, Geralt, I just _said_ I was _capable_ of it–”

“Prove it.”

Geralt’s going to be the death of him.

“Mouthy, for someone whose arms are still shaking,” Yen remarks, and Jaskier frowns. He hadn’t noticed.

“Geralt–”

Geralt interrupts again. “I just had the breath knocked out of me in the best possible way,” he says, raising his head enough to look back at the both of them. “I am _fine,_ dammit.”

“Gods, he’s still grouchy, too.”

“I want what I was offered. I want him to fuck me.” Jasker thinks it’s on purpose that Geralt doesn’t look at him until just then, but, oh _gods._ “I want to feel you inside me, Jaskier,” he says.

The noise that comes out of Jaskier’s mouth isn’t a whine, sigh, laugh, scoff, or growl, but somewhere between all five. Everything crescendos and nearly boils over again, and he’s not sure if he can move without disastrous consequences– damn Geralt and his _mouth–_ and he’s not sure if he can even look away from Geralt’s gaze. Steady and determined, but not as predatory as some of his and Yen’s more intense fucks have been. Not quite gentle fondness, either, but somewhere between the two. Jask is getting lost in it.

“… you sure you can take it?” he finally manages, mouth dry.

“Everything the two of you have to offer, always.”

That’s… more than enough, then, Jaskier decides, and moves quick and clumsy as he grabs for the oil again. “This is going to be _quick,_ Geralt,” he warns.

“Better than drawn out.”

“Don’t think poorly of me.”

Geralt snorts, one amused noise muffled into his pillow. “Too late.”

He means to swat at him, really, but in the moment his hand comes down on Geralt’s exposed arse harder than he intends. He feels him jump– _sees_ Yennefer jump from the corner of his eye, too– what a power trip. He thinks he ought to apologize, but he doesn’t want to. Because Geralt could do with a bit more of a spanking, every now and again.

“You’ll tell me if you need to stop.”

“I won’t need to stop.”

“Geralt. You will,” he says, enunciating each word purposefully, “tell me if you need to.”

_“Fine._ Just get on with it!”

For all of his impatience– both of theirs– it can’t stop human physiology and Geralt goes tense all over again as Jaskier slides in. Unlike before, it’s not Jaskier’s fingers that take the brunt, and he feels the squeeze all the way to his core. Burning and swirling and growing. “Geralt,” he grinds out, voice hoarse, _“relax.”_

He’s trying to think of anything vaguely mood-killing. Ice cold river baths, camping in caves smelling of rotting drowner corpses. It’s not helping much. He takes a shallow breath, and tries again. “Geralt.”

“Trying,” Geralt grunts. “I can han–”

“Yen,” Jask interrupts, looking at her. Pleading with her. Gods. “Help him. Get him relaxed.”

She nods and goes, catching her fingers beneath Geralt’s chin. She guides his face from the pillow and kisses him, slowly and assuredly. Jaskier can’t quite see the whole of his face, but his skin’s stained a deep red and there’s sweat at his brow. All by his hands. All by his cock.

Another breath. Two more. Geralt’s easing up on him. He strokes a gentle hand up his spine, and pretends both hands aren’t shaking. “Good, both of you,” he praises. “You’re doing wonderful.” He’s able to push in further, bit by bit. Yen nearly swallows every one of Geralt’s breaths but some still get through, and the one with the tiny moan at the end… gods, wonderful doesn’t describe it. There’s no words known to man that could, he thinks.

“Just a little more, Geralt.”

“Fuck me, Jaskier.”

Somehow, hands framing his arse and balls deep inside of him now, Geralt’s words still make him blush.

“Anything you want,” he agrees, and does.

He’s got all these techniques, things he’s learned to hold out longer, make the orgasm better. Regular breathing, a consistent pace, even closing his eyes– he’s a visual man, and there’s Geralt, flush and arching, and Yen, kissing him with one hand between her own legs– but he’s not looking to employ them. He loses his mind, a bit; Geralt does right alongside him, pressing back into his thrusts and chasing him closer and closer to blessed relief. The tight, primal urge coiled deep into his gut finally snaps when Geralt clenches, purposefully– has to be– and they both moan as Jaskier spills inside of him.

It’s spectacular and wonderful and wondrous and– _fuck it._ It’s not his job to _word_ right now, either. He doesn’t want to think. He just wants to float on the cloud of lust and love and release. His body’s had quite enough, too, thank you; he collapses fully on top of Geralt’s back, overheated and sticky, and in turn must push Geralt back into the bed, too. He hears him muffle an _oomph_ in the pillows, and he hears Yen laugh from what sounds like far away. Jaskier thinks he wants to laugh, too, but he only manages a little huff that’s mostly silent and gives up again. It’s easy to, with his cheek pressed against one of the deeper scars between Geralt’s shoulder blades. And yeah, he’s damp from sweat and it’s hotter than hell, pressed up against him like this, but it’s nice to just lay here and feel him _breathe_ as they come down.

“You don’t look so wrung out when you have _me,”_ Yennefer says. She still sounds so far away. Jaskier’s own body feels far away. All there is is Geralt, right now. What a thought.

“Havin’ you isn’t a three-act performance,” he murmurs.

_“Was_ it three acts with him?”

“Pining, participating, ploughing.” Over the course of some handfuls of years, but it’s still true. 

Yen laughs. “Well, when you put it that way.” 

Geralt’s laughing, too. Jaskier can feel it. Feel him move, and feel him clench around where his cock’s still half nestled inside him. He wants to laugh, too, but instead moans into Geralt’s sweaty skin. _“Geralt,”_ he whines. He’s not a witcher, and he’s definitely not twenty anymore, alas.

“Pull _out,_ then,” Geralt mumbles, and Jaskier works himself up enough to do so, if only because the stimulation now _will_ hurt and they’re both tired, whatever Geralt might say.

As it is, Geralt only gives a syllable. “Mm.”

Jaskier barely manages to flop onto the mattress next to him, instead of on top of him again. “Uh huh,” he agrees, and wants to fit himself against Geralt but the man isn’t moving off his stomach yet. He wiggles as close as he can get, and slips his fingers into his hair instead. He wants to kiss him, but gods, the effort involved… “Geralt?” he tries, instead, and hopes it’ll give him at least a ghost of the answer he’s looking for.

“Mhm…” Geralt finally moves, a little. He turns his head to Jaskier, and Jaskier smiles. “Good for you?”

“Phenomenal,” Jaskier admits. Amongst other words. He still can’t find them, though. “You?”

“Yeah… same.”

“Really?”

“I’m not lying, Jaskier.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t truly think he had been. He just thinks that, deep down, he’s just pre-dispositioned to having to give Geralt attitude to get truth from him. And he likes the praise. He really likes the praise. “Really glad, then. Thank you.”

“No need. ‘d let you rut me anytime.”

Jaskier breathes out slowly, and feels the happiness go all the way to his toes. Gods, this was good. This was so, _so_ good. “Thank you,” he says again, overly happy.

“Oh, this _pillow talk,”_ Yennefer announces suddenly. “I could pay for a whole performance at The Kingfisher in the meantime–”

“Don’t pretend you don’t do it, too,” Jaskier complains, but he isn’t seriously complaining. He needs to grumble at her just as much as he needs to sass Geralt. It’s how they work, and they do it so well.

Geralt turns, just enough to pull Yen down on his other side.

“Not nearly as much as you.”

_“I’m_ a poet.”

“And I’m a sorceress, but that doesn’t mean I shoot fireworks into the air every time I orgasm.”

“I’d like to see that.”

“Me, too,” Geralt says quietly, and they all three laugh.

It takes a little while longer for his high to come down. He doesn’t even know if it comes from the newness of the thing, or holding out, or Geralt himself. But awareness beyond their silenced pillow talk and gentle stroking of skin returns slowly, until he’s eventually able to ask, _“did_ you, though?”

“What?”

“Orgasm.”

“Who?”

He thinks for a second, realizing he’s no idea if Geralt had had a second orgasm or not. Not that it matters, but, for the sake of honesty, “both,” he says.

“Twice,” Geralt rumbles. He’s been dozing, and still is. “Blanket’s disgusting.”

Jaskier snorts softly, and doesn’t apologize for that.

“I didn’t,” Yen says, and Jask barely cracks his eyes open in dissatisfaction before she continues, “and it’s not a prerequisite, Jaskier, before you say anything.”

“But–”

“I enjoyed myself _quite_ thoroughly, I assure you. I want nothing more tonight save sleep.”

And oh, he knows that it isn’t necessary; that orgasms don’t have to come out of sex. But he’s used to that end result. It always feels a bit lopsided when it turns out one or more of them don’t get off, like some level of neglect there. And he knows that’s not true. (Well, sort of true. But all three of them had known what tonight was going into it.) But insecurities, he supposes. Uncertainties and the worry of failure.

Not that he supposes it matters much, now. Because Geralt’s already gone back to sleep and he’s not far behind himself, so short of _letting_ Yen fuck either of them, they’re both bound to be useless in that department right now.

He lets it go. They’ll make it up to her, he’s positive. “Alright,” he relents, and snuggles in closer to Geralt. _Next time,_ he wants to say, but the words don’t form on his lips correctly. Exhaustion drags them down, and he’s asleep before he can try to keep talking to either one of them.

  
  


Morning dawns as bright and early as it ever does. Even now, Jaskier’s not an early riser by choice, but mostly habit. He wakes with the dawn, and, in a rare moment, is the first one awake out of the three of them. Geralt doesn’t look like he’s so much as twitched, still face down in the pillows, and Yen’s turned and curled up with her back to him. He can't even see their faces but they both look glorious, sleep-messy in their own rights. Jaskier falls more and more everyday. His head’s been spinning since he met them.

Yes, it’s early morning and he’s waxing poetic. That’s his job. That’s what he _does._

Carefully, he shifts over onto his back, and folds his hands across his chest. He’s going to stay here until they wake up, whenever that’ll be. He wonders if they’re slowing down in their old(?) age, the same way he is. But he doesn’t like thinking about that, sooo it’s probably just the fact that they’re used to sleeping in, now, given a lack of wandering the world for their daughter. Yen isn’t working with Nilfgaard and Geralt only takes contracts here and there. Jask, Regis, and Zoltan have quietly agreed they don’t think Geralt’s ever going to _really_ be able to retire, not _really;_ there’s too much _witcher_ in his blood. But the hunts are fewer nowadays, and he actually seems quite happy in Corvo Bianco. They both do.

… maybe he’ll take a much-deserved leave, and follow them back to Toussaint whenever they decide to leave Novigrad again. A trip to the vineyard sounds lovely.

Geralt, eventually, wakes next. “… you sleep less these days,” he greets, tilting his head towards Jaskier.

He rolls his eyes. “No, you just sleep _more,_ you retiree, you.”

“Witchers don’t retire,” Geralt mumbles, and yawns. Knee jerk reaction. The reason why he’ll never quite be out of the witcher life.

“Uh huh,” Jask grants, and turns to face him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Any ache stopped hours ago. You know that.”

_“Did_ I make you ache?”

“Pleasantly,” Geralt sighs, and then stretches, body arching off the bed again. “It was fun, Jask. I’m more than fine.”

“Okay.” He hadn’t really thought he’d properly hurt him; he doesn’t possess the strength or width of cock. But next day regrets and all. He’s glad it isn’t the case. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Geralt replies immediately, and Jask almost rolls his eyes again.

Yen interrupts them, anyhow. “Isn’t it a bit _early?”_ she stresses, but half drapes over Geralt, anyway.

“G’morning.”

“Morning,” Jask greets. “Sleep well?”

“It’s not the estate.” She rests her chin on Geralt’s shoulder. “But it’s fine.”

“Thousands of crowns, and it’s _‘fine,’”_ Jaskier mutters. “Good.”

“I just like luxury.”

_“I_ like luxury,” he protests, and they _all_ chuckle.

“You’ve got to go?” Yen asks shortly. She’s tracing patterns on Geralt’s back and Geralt hasn’t moved at all, even though he can’t be comfortable.

“He wouldn’t be awake otherwise.”

Now he’s just defensive. “No.” … although it’s fair. Why is _he_ the busy one? “No,” he says, a little softer, and Geralt cracks an eye open to look at him. “I’m… I can stay awhile.” He can, and he wants to, so he will. “At least, until someone comes knocking on the door, looking for me.”

“I’ll send them away,” Geralt mumbles.

“Geralt, you cannot open this door with your prick hanging out, while I am _also_ in this room with my prick hanging out.”

_“I’ll_ chase them out, then,” Yennefer adds, and Jaskier groan-laughs. He doesn’t know which is worse.

“No one’s chasing _anyone_ out,” he says firmly. He leans his head against Geralt and reaches to wrap his arm around Yen. “I’m staying. We’re staying.”

They both protest mightily when Geralt finally turns over, gathering both of them under his arms to pull against his chest. “We’re staying,” their witcher decrees. Their sorceress agrees, and Jaskier…

Well, he’s never been one to resist them at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaannddd that's all! for those who haven't played witcher 3, in the dlc, Geralt is gifted a home in Toussaint- wine country!- and settles down with your in-game romance of choice, or Ciri, or Dandelion, depending on the circumstances; main game Dandelion goes on to inherit a brothel-turned-cabaret (and also falls in love, bless Priscilla I love her so goddamn dearly in game) so, d o m e s t i c i t y abounds! so a big fusion of adaptations here in the final chapter, but with the same old good snarky snark ot3 and god bless Jask and his fantasies, finally boy, FINALLY
> 
> (also one of my fav parts was writing Yen being all, I don't need to have an orgasm to be pleased, silly bard.)
> 
> thank you all for your enthusiasm on this one~ I thought I was in a minority with the ot3 when I first starting writing and it's so flattering to have this attention and just to know so many people love this shipppp <3


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